DAYS  SPENT  ON 
A  DOGE'S  FARM 


MARGARET  SYMONDS 


LIBRARY 
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DAIS  SPENT  ON  A  DOGES   FARM 


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DAYS    SPENT    ON    A 
DOGE'S    FARM 


MARGARET    SYMONDS 

(MRS.    W.    W.    VAUGHAN) 


WITH     A     NEW      PREFACE 
AND  1 6  NEW  ILLUSTRATIONS 


LONDON  :    T.    FISHER    UNWIN 
ADELPHI  TERRACE.    MCMVIII 


l?o8 


Ho 

My  Father, 

John  Addington  Symonds 


"  O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea." 

Tennyson. 


First  Edition,  i8g3 
Second  Edition,  igo8 

(All  rights  reserved.) 


LION   OF   S.    MARK   AND   INDIAN   CORN. 


CONTENTS 


Preface  to  the  Second  Edition 
Preface       . 


Introduction  ........ 

CHAP. 

i.  Rise  of  the  Pisanis  and  Purchase  of  Vescovana 

ii.  The  Making  of  the  Doge's  Farm    .         .         . 

hi.  First  Impressions         ...... 

iv.  Second  Thoughts    ...... 


PAGE 

ii 

45 

47 
53 
6o 

7* 
93 


6  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

v.  May  Wanderings      .         .         .         .         .         .112 

vi.  In  Early  June     .         .         .          .         .         .            124 

vii.  The  Melancholy  of  the  Plain       .          .         .129 

viii.  Flowers  of  the  Plain           .          .         .         .            138 

ix.  The  Stables  and  the  People    ....      145 

x.  A  Gromboolian  Serenade     .         .          .          .            163 

xi.  Old  Houses  of  Gromboolia       .          .         .         .172 

xii.  Fishing  in  Gromboolia           .          .         .         .            183 

xiii.  The  Festa  of  S.  Antonio  at  Padua           .         .189 

xiv.  The  Harvest        .         .         .          .         .         .            202 

xv.  Gleaning   ........     209 

xvi.  Threshing    .         .          .         .         .         .         .            217 

xvii.  A  Day  at  Trissino    ......     223 

xviii.  On  the  Banks  of  the  Adige  and  Palazzo  Rosso     244 

xix.  In  the  Euganean  Hills     .          .         .         .         .252 

xx.  Last  Days    .......            279 

Epilogue 282 

Index  .........           285 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


Doge  Alvise  Pisani Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Lion  of  S.  Mark  and  Indian  Corn  ...  7 

Lamps  of  the  Pisani  Admiral  .  .         .         .         .47 

Home  of  the  Long-tailed  Tit         .         .         .         .  53 

The  Pisani  Palace  at  Stra  ....     Facing  58 

Bocca  delle  Denoncie  Segrete        ....  60 

The  Doge's  Farm  on  the  South  Side  ...       63 

Dogaressa  Morosina  Morosini  .  .         .       Facing     66 

From  a  portrait  in  the  possession  of  Countess  Pisani. 

Ground  Plan  "of  the  Doge's  Farm  and  Garden  in 

1700 .    .    .70 

Gates  of  the  Doge's  Farm 71 

Doge  Marni  Grunani  .....  Facing     72 

From  a  portrait  in  the  possession  of  Countess  Pisani. 

A  Gromboolian  Farmhouse 

Photo  by  Professor  F.  Trombini. 


Facing     76 


8  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Shrine  of  the  Red  Madonna        .....       80 
A  Garden  Wall  at  Este  in  the  Euganean  Hills  Facing     90 

Photo  by  Professor  F.  Trombini. 

Church  and  House  of  Vescovana,  seen  from  the  Canal  92 

Mulberry         ...         ;         ...         .  93 

The  Tomb  of  Petrarch  at  Arqua       .         .         .  Facing  93 

The  House  of  Petrarch  at  ArquA  .         .       Facing  95 

Villa  and  Garden  of  Val  San  Zibio  in  the  Euganean 

Hills     ........  Facing     97 

Back  of  the  Church  at  Vescovana          ...  99 

Village  of  Vescovana,  from  the  Canal       .         .  .107 

Silkworm           .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  112 

Oleander  Flower         .         .         .         .         .         .  .124 

All'  Albera     .                  127 

Cardinal's  Umbrella    .          .         .         .         .         .  .129 

Living  House,  with  Euganean  Hills  and  Alps  in  the 

Distance  ........  130 

Copper  Basin  and  Towel      .         .         .         .         .  .130 

Copper  Water-Can 131 

Farmhouse  and  Stables         .         .         .         .         .  131 

Corner  of  a  Gromboolian  Kitchen          .         .         .  133 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  9 

PAGE 

Farmhouse,  with  Vine  grown  over  the  Porch    .  .     135 

In  the  Village  of  Vescovana           .         .         .         .  136 

Green  Tree-Frog          .         .         .         .         .         .  .138 

Yoke  of  a  Gromboolian  Ox    .....  145 

A  Team  of  Oxen  in  the  Garden  at  Vescovana   Facing     146 
Photo  by  Miss  L.  Duff  Gordon. 

Farm  of  the  Manfredini      .         .         .  .         .         .152 

Stables,  Fontana      .         .         .         .         .         .         .  153 

Oxen  at  the  Well Facing     154 

Photo  by  Professor  F.  Trombini. 

Oxen  and  Peasants  .....     Facing     156 

Photo  by  Professor  F.  Trombini. 

Well  at  the  Pioppa     .         .  .         .         .  .         .160 

Doge's  Cap 163 

Cardinal's  Hat    .  .  .         .         .         .  .         .172 

Grompa,  Villa  Estense    .         .         .  .         .         .  177 

Prize  Bull  of  Signor  Marchiori  .  .         Facing     179 

Prize  Ox  of  Signor  Marchiori        .         .         .     Facing     179 
Barchesse,  Boara  Pisani        .  .         .         .         .  181 

Scene  of  the  Fishing       ......  184 


io  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  .Scene  of  the  Horse-Racing  at  Padua  .         Facing     198 

Barchesse  at  Vescovana        .         .         .         .         .  .211 

In  the  Harvest  Fields  at  Vescovana       .  .     Facing     212 

A  Gromboolian  Peasant  Girl  .         .         .     Facing     221 

Photo  by  Walter  Leaf. 

A  Portrait  of  Canotto        ....  Facing     221 

Steps,  leading  to  Front  Door  at  Trissino       .         .  229 

View    seen    looking    down    from    the    Banks    of   the 

Adige    .......  Facing     245 

Photo  by  Professor  F.  Trombini. 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Adige  and  Palazzo  Rosso  .     246 

The     Pergola    of    Shelley's    Villa    at    Este    in    the 

Euganean  Hills         .....     Facing     253 

Photo  by  W.  W.  Vaughan. 

On  the  Banks  of  a  Canal       ....     Facing     254 

The  Euganean  Hills  seen  in  the  background. 

The  Convent  of  Praglia     ....  Facing     256 

Photo  by  Alinari. 

The  Walls  of  Este  in  the  Euganean  Hills  .     Facing     278 

Photo  by  Professor  W.  J.  Butler. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

A    MEMORY    OF    COUNTESS    PISAN1 

ON  a  night  in  May,  1888,  and  therefore  all  but 
twenty  years  ago,  I  visited  Vescovana  for  the 
first  time.  My  father  and  I,  Mr.  H.  F.  Brown,  and  his 
mother,  and  our  two  Venetian  gondoliers,  left  Venice 
in  the  afternoon,  and  in  the  dusk,  some  five  hours 
later,  drove  up  to  the  doors  of  the  great  villa  on 
the  mainland  to  which  we  had  been  bidden  by  its 
owner.  My  father  and  I  were  complete  strangers 
to  our  hostess,  Countess  Pisani,  though  she  knew 
and  long  had  loved  my  father  through  his  books  ; 
and  the  invitation  was  to  me  a  sort  of  fairy-tale  epi- 
sode in  our  Venetian  life.  I  was  then  a  young  girl, 
full  of  enthusiasm  and  prepared  to  accept  every  form 
of  romantic  impression.  The  great  house,  set  down 
in  the  heart  of  that  immense  plain,  the  scent  of 
syringa  in  the  outer  air,  the  hundreds  of  crimson 
roses  and  the  lights  in  the  rooms  within — these,  and 


12    PREFACE   TO    THE   SECOND   EDITION 

the  sight  of  the  gardens,  the  farms,  and  all  the  curious 
Italian  country  life  as  revealed  by  the  sun  the  follow- 
ing morning,  made  a  memorable  impression  on  my 
brain.  But  far  surpassing  them  was  the  figure  of  the 
lady  herself  whose  spirit  permeated  and  glorified  that 
little  paradise  upon  the  plains,  and  I  instantly  felt 
that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  great  personality. 
The  affection  and  admiration  thus  begun,  only  con- 
tinued to  develop  through  the  many  years  in  which 
I  had  her  friendship. 

It  was  near  the  eve  of  Christmas,  some  two  months 
ago,  that,  sitting  at  breakfast  in  the  Yorkshire  dawn, 
the  snow  on  the  moors,  a  thin,  black  veil  of  winter 
mists  upon  the  wild  and  sombre  landscape  without, 
I  received  a  letter  suggesting  that  the  old  book 
written  about  those  early  days  in  Italy  should  be 
reprinted.  I  went  therefore  to  the  wooden  book 
box  which  held  their  story,  and  pulled  the  papers  out. 
Stray  flowers  fell  from  amongst  them — bits  of  brown 
roses,  portions  of  a  curious  purple  creeper1  which 
grew  upon  the  pergola  at  Vescovana,  photographs  of 
a  very  primitive  order,  prints  and  MS.  and  poems. 
Amongst  them  was  a  packet  of  the  Contessa's  own 
letters,  written  in  a  strong  and  very  remarkable 
hand.  The  pen  which  wrote  them  was  rather 
more  or  a  weapon  than  a  friend — it  was  a  sharp, 
incisive  tool,  used  to  convey  very  inadequately  the 
1  Periploca  groeca. 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION    13 

vital  thought  of  its  owner.  Yet  these  letters,  with 
their  perfect  simplicity  and  their  marked  individu- 
ality, tell  the  story  of  the  Contessa's  later  years 
far  more  effectively  than  anything  I  myself  could 
say,  and  I  have  therefore  made  some  selections  from 
them  in  the  following  slight  sketch  of  one,  whose 
loving  and  vital  presence  no  mere  written  words  can 
ever  bring  again. 

For  the  bare  bones  of  facts  in  the  life  ot  the 
Contessa  I  cannot  do  better  than  quote  the  fol- 
lowing short  notice  which  appeared  in  the  Times  of 
July  1,  1902,  a  few  days  after  her  death  :  "  Evelina, 
Countess  Pisani,  died  on  June  25th  at  her  country 
residence  near  Este,  in  North  Italy.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Doctor  Julius  van  Millingen,  the  phy- 
sician who  attended  Byron  on  his  deathbed  at  Misso- 
longhi,  and  who  was  known  as  an  antiquary  and  an 
eminent  medical  man  in  Constantinople,  where  his 
daughter  was  born  in  1830.  She  was  brought  up  by 
her  grandmother,  an  Englishwoman,  in  Rome,  until 
she  was  eighteen,  when  she  rejoined  her  father  in 
Constantinople.  About  1852  she  married  Count 
Almoro  Pisani,  the  head  of  the  ancient  Venetian 
family  of  that  name,  who  died  some  fourteen  years 
ago,  leaving  no  issue.  Since  then  Countess  Pisani  has 
managed  his  large  estates  in  North  Italy.  She  was  a 
staunch  friend  of  England  and  or  English  ideas,  and 
in  her  beautiful  home  she  welcomed  a  large  circle  of 


14    PREFACE   TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

English  friends,  who  will  recall  her  intellectual  gifts 
and  great  charm  of  manner.  Her  brother,  Alexander 
van  Millingen,  is  the  well-known  professor  of  history, 
in  the  Robert  College  at  Constantinople." 

The  Contessa  was  very  fond  of  telling  stories 
about  her  youth,  and  I  wish  very  much  that  I  could 
remember  some  of  these.  Of  her  early  childhood, 
and  of  the  period  spent  in  Rome  with  her  English 
grandmother,  she  had  many  delightful  tales.  Her 
education  was  pretty  severe,  and  she  attended  the 
Convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur  as  a  day  scholar. 

The  most  passionate  affection  of  her  youth  was 
centred  on  her  father — the  English  doctor  in  Con- 
stantinople ;  and  for  her  two  brothers — Alexander, 
the  professor  who  constantly  visited  her  in  later 
days  at  Vescovana,  and  Charles,  a  physician,  she 
ever  felt  the  deepest  affection.  But  the  circum- 
stances of  her  life  had  cut  her  off  almost  com- 
pletely from  her  family  at  the  period  when  I 
myself  knew  her. 

The  Roman  days  passed,  and  as  a  girl  of  eighteen 
she  returned  for  a  time  to  live  with  her  father  at  Con- 
stantinople. Some  years  later  she  was  invited  by  a 
friend  to  visit  her  in  Venice  and  to  see  something 
of  Venetian  society.  She  has  often  told  me  of 
that  time,  and  how,  on  the  night  of  her  arrival, 
she  was  taken  to  the  opera,  wearing  the  wonderful 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND   EDITION    15 

Eastern  dress  which,  in  the  days  of  Lord  Byron, 
was  at  once  curious  and  the  height  of  fashion. 
Her  beauty  and  her  intelligence  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  the  Venetians.  A  short  time  afterwards 
she  was  married  to  Count  Almord  Pisani,  the  last 
of  his  name,  in  the  church  of  St.  Mark  at 
Venice. 

The  doors  of  Venetian  society  were  at  once  open 
to  Evelina  Pisani,  and  I  think  that  for  a  time  she 
frequented  it.  But  a  merely  social  life  of  this 
particular  type — Venetian  society  was  in  no  ways 
intellectual  at  that  period — could  not  satisfy  her  ardent 
and  inquiring  spirit,  and  she  found  that  the  large 
spaces  and  repose  of  the  old  farmhouse  upon  the 
mainland  suited  better  with  her  deeper  tastes  ;  her 
husband  also  preferred  that  life,  and  more  and  more 
they  lived  at  Vescovana,  the  young  wife  spending 
ever  longer  periods  among  her  books  and  flowers, 
for  neighbours  practically  did  not  exist.  She  had  a 
pair  of  ponies,  and  drove  herself  constantly  across  the 
plain  and  into  the  Euganean  hills,  which  she  thus 
learned  to  know  intimately.  No  children  were  born 
of  the  marriage,  and  in  those  days  she  took  very  little 
personal  part  in  the  management  of  the  property. 
Her  energies  were  therefore  devoted  to  the  house  and 
garden,  with  the  results  described  in  Chapter  II.  of 
this  book.  It  was  probably  in  those  days  of  com- 
parative leisure  that  she  accumulated-  her  deep  know- 


16    PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

ledge  of  Italian,  English,  French,  and  other  literatures. 
She  has  often  described  to  me  the  immense  length  of 
the  days,  and  the  yards  of  embroidery  with  which 
she  filled  the  gaps.  In  summer  she  and  her  husband 
would  go  to  the  Alps,  as  so  many  Italian  families  do, 
staying  at  St.  Moritz  or  at  Pontresina ;  and  here  she 
acquired  that  love  for  mountain  flowers  which  in 
later  years  led  to  the  construction  of  the  "  Mockery," 
or  rock  garden  of  the  Lombard  Plain.  In  winter 
they  would  occasionally  go  to  Venice  and  live  awhile 
in  their  apartments  in  the  Palazzo  Barbaro.  But 
they  always  returned  to  the  farm,  and  to  its  long  and 
splendid  isolation. 

It  was  perhaps  a  curious  life  for  a  beautiful  and 
highly  accomplished  woman  of  the  world,  but  women 
of  great  intellect  often,  in  lives  of  this  sort,  develop 
inherent  powers — powers  which  would  in  all  prob- 
ability have  been  dwarfed  in  drawing-rooms.  The 
fashion  of  ladies  writing  garden-books  had  not  yet 
dawned,  but  I  have  always  dimly  felt  that  the  Con- 
tessa  was  one  of  the  unconscious  godmothers  of  that 
peculiar  form  of  literature. 

When  I  came  to  know  her,  the  struggle  with 
circumstance — for  a  struggle  there  must  always  be 
when  strong  characters  are  forced  into  distinct  and 
foreign  moulds — was  over.  She  had  found  her 
plateau  in  life.  With  the  natural  elements  of  that 
plateau  she  had  of  course  to  war  ;  w  Chi  ha  terra 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION     17 

ha  guerra  "  was  a  favourite  maxim  of  hers.  Who 
cannot  in  bitterness  repeat  it,  even  if  his  "  terra  " 
consist  of  a  suburban  square  ;  and  hers  were 
3,000  acres  of  cultivated  land  with  the  accompani- 
ment of  Italian  peasants,  Italian  bailiffs,  and  Italian 
government.  She  was  partly  English,  and  many 
of  her  instincts  were  English  ;  but  she  had  French 
blood  too,  and  her  extraordinarily  fertile  brain  was 
open  to  a  hundred  cosmopolitan  ideas.  I  think  that 
this  was  what  made  her  so  passionatelyywj/.  She  was 
free  of  national  prejudices.  She  loved  righteousness 
for  righteousness'  sake.  She  loved  Italy  with  that 
almost  despairing  love  which  all  her  lovers  have 
shared,  and  she  was  fevered  by  her  sorrows  and  per- 
plexities. She  was  proud  of  the  great  Venetian  name 
she  bore  :  "  You  know  I  am  devoted  to  the  Pisanis," 
she  writes.  "  I  live  under  their  roof,  as  the  peasants 
say  ;  whatever  I  enjoy  belonged  to  them,  and  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  could  never  thank  them  enough  or 
praise  them  as  they   deserve."  J 

We  most  of  us,  I  suppose,  live  double  lives — 
those  of  the  spirit  and  those  of  facts — and  as  we 
grow  older  we  learn,  I  think,  more  and  more  how 
the  best  of  these  with  very  many  people  is  the 
hidden  life.  It  is  certain  that  the  public  (burying 
perhaps  its  own  better  part  and  appearing  in  the 

1  For  an  account  of  this  great  Venetian  family,  see  Chapter  I. 
of  this  book. 


1 8    PREFACE    TO    THE  SECOND  EDITION 

guise  of  a  gossip),  is  often  the  unsympathetic  spec- 
tator, rather  than  the  intuitive  friend.  The  public, 
in  the  case  of  Countess  Pisani,  noticed  a  powerful 
lady  driving,  with  the  utmost  regularity,  from  farm 
to  farm  in  her  carriage,  and  finding  a  great  many 
obvious  faults  with  their  management.  It  was 
perhaps  impossible  that  they  should  see  the  loving, 
the  deeply  intellectual  and  sympathetic  woman's 
heart,  which  beat  so  passionately  for  the  good  of 
the  land,  at  the  back  of  all  this  outward  formality. 

"  Chi  ha  terra  ha  guerra."  "  It  is  a  daily  struggle 
and  a  conflict,"  she  writes.  "  It  is  not  easy  to  do 
one's  duty.  Each  in  his  own  corner  has  many  diffi- 
culties. The  great  thing  is  to  do  it  bravely,  and 
God,  in  His  mercy  and  goodness,  gave  you  and  me 
such  gifts  that  we  cannot  complain,  but  must  use 
them  to  the  greatest  advantage  of  those  who  live 
together  with  ourselves  in  life.' 

She  had  difficult  clay  to  work  upon.  She  pro- 
duced a  fine  model,  but  at  an  incalculable  expense  of 
spirit.  The  Italian  peasant  in  Central  Italy  is  often 
refined  and  highly  intelligent.  In  the  Padovana,  he 
is  of  a  coarser  and  heavier  mould,  and  his  mind  has 
been  warped  by  centuries  of  apparently  fruitless 
labour  and  an  old  tradition  of  serfdom.  "  How 
difficult  it  is  to  understand  the  peasants !  "  she  writes 
in  one  letter.  "  They  reason  like  children,  and  when 
you  are  kind  to  them  they  act  like  spoilt  children. 


PREFACE   TO    THE  SECOND  EDITION    19 

I  wish  you  had  been  present  at  an  interview  that  I 
had  this  morning  with  the  Sindaco  of  Stanghella 
and  the  Brigadiere  di  Carabinieri.  They  agreed 
with  me,  and  confessed  that  they  found  it  very 
puzzling." 

In  her  work  for  the  improvement  of  the  land 
and  of  human  life,  she  got  but  little,  and  that  most 
unintelligent,  help  from  the  local  authorities.  The 
keeping  of  the  public  road  was,  at  Vescovana,  even 
as  it  is  sometimes  in  an  English  village,  no  great 
advertisement  of  parish  government.  On  a  January 
day  we  read  :  "I  went  out  to-day  for  the  first 
time  in  the  little  carriage,  but  could  not  go  very 
far,  the  road  being  one  large  piece  of  ice,  and  the 
Village  Commune  won't  do  anything  to  prevent 
men,  women,  cattle  and  horses,  from  breaking  their 
necks.  It  makes  me  wretched.  One  of  the 
big  people  of  the  Municipality  broke  his  leg 
this  morning,  and  we  are  told  the  orders  were 
given  to  have  a  'little  sand  thrown  on  the  road 
next  week  ! '"  .  .  .  Again,  in  March  :  "  I  went  out 
early  this  morning  visiting  the  stables,  and  was 
distressed,  as  usual,  to  see  the  fields  of  beautiful 
wheat  covered  with  water  ;  there  is  so  much  mis- 
management rrom  want  of  the  right  knowledge. 
When  you  think  that  Italy  could  be  one  of  the 
richest  countries  in  the  world,  it  really  makes  you 
miserable   to   see   such    loss    for   want    of    proper 


20   PREFACE   TO   THE  SECOND  EDITION 

understanding.  '■U  Italia  far  a  da  se?  and  we  can 
see  what  use  they  make  of  it."  Here  is  more  on 
the  same  topic,  with  an  amusing  account  of  a  local 
lawsuit:  "Italy  will  always  be  the  same,  private 
quarrels  becoming  of  general  interest.  Guelph  and 
Ghibiline  are  revived  at  any  moment.  We  have  had 
ourselves  a  fight,  and  eighteen  men,  armed  with 
knives  and  spades  and  pitchforks,  who  assailed  my 
party,  dispersed  them  and  destroyed  the  battle- 
ments (a  hedge),  and  took  possession  of  the  land. 
High  words  passed  on  both  sides.  I  was  not 
present,  but  the  chief  of  the  opposite  party  was 
on  the  spot,  and  threatened  death !  '  Dirai  alia 
Contessa  che,  Vuno  o  Valtro  deve  morire  sul  posto ! ' 
This  message  was  faithfully  delivered  to  me  with 
a  glee  in  the  eye  of  my  men,  and  I  went  to  law, 
not  feeling  strong  enough  to  be  either  a  Gremio 
or  a  Lambertazzo.  The  case  was  brought  before 
the  Prefettura  di  Monselice,  and  all  the  '  bravi '  of 
the  neighbourhood  were  called  by  my  opponent  as 
witnesses.  Such  black  beards  and  ferocious  faces 
you  never  saw  but  in  the  Middle  Ages !  It  was 
nothing  but  a  show  to  intimidate.  I  am  sure  the 
beards  were  made  of  black  cloth,  and  the  eyes  were 
bits  of  charcoal.  I  had  also  forty  witnesses,  but 
they  all  looked  like  blue  baboons,  and  trembled  in 
the  most  disgraceful  manner!  There  were  also  three 
lawyers   to  defend   me — a   Christian,  a  Jew,  and   a 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION    21 

Heathen.  .  .  ."  In  a  time  of  drought  and  strike, 
she  writes  :  u  I  have  had  all  kinds  of  difficulties 
in  the  farms  ;  this  dreadful  drought  deprives 
my  beautiful  oxen  of  every  comfort.  We  have  no 
straw  for  their  beds,  hardly  any  hay  for  their  food, 
and  no  green  grass.  I  rush  from  one  stable  to  the 
other  in  a  wild  state  of  excitement,  storming  right 
and  left.  Friends  left  me  in  the  midst  of  what  I 
call  a  strike.  The  harvesters  refused  to  go  to  work 
(not  one  man  of  last  year  came).  We  have  come  to 
an  agreement,  and  to-day,  being  Sunday,  those  who 
consent  to  work  are  invited  to  a  meeting  under  my 
barchesse"  l 

But  her  dealings  with  the  land  and  its  inhabitants 
were  by  no  means  those  of  a  perpetual  hurricane. 
There  were  calm  moments — moments  of  blessed  rest 
and  thankfulness.  I  think  I  must  quote  in  full  one 
Christmas  letter,  which  shows  her  in  her  quiet  life 
at  home  : — 

Jan.  6,  1889.  "I  thought  of  you  to-day  more 
than  usual,  and  I  am  sure  you  would  have  enjoyed 
to  see  all  the  children  of  the  village  who  came 
to  get  the  Strega  under  the  arcades.  Poor  little 
things  !  I  did  not  give  them  much,  and  yet  they 
were  made  very  happy  with  oranges,  cakes,  and 
•  rosolio '  (a  sweet  red  wine  made  up  of  roses). 
They  all  screamed  at  the  tops  of  their  voices,  and  it 
1  Arcades, 


22    PREFACE   TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

was  with  great  difficulty  that  their  parents  succeeded 
in  persuading  them,  when  it  was  almost  dark,  that  it 
was  time  to  go  home.  Even  the  dogs  were  merry, 
and  I  have  an  idea  that  many  a  cake  was  stolen  by 
those  dreadful  brutes  who  are  never  tired  of  eating." 
(The  Contessa  was  devoted  to  her  big  Maremma 
dogs,  whose  beauties  and  whose  vices  she  loved  to 
dwell  upon.)  "The  day  was  most  beautiful,  and 
the  sky  as  pure  and  intensely  blue  as  it  is  in 
the  Engadine.  ...  I  ought  to  have  answered  your 
last  letter  and  told  you  how  happy  it  made  me, 
and  how  glad  to  get  an  insight  of  your  father's 
study.  When  I  feel  cold  (it  sometimes  happens  in 
this  big  room),  I  dream  of  his  big  stove  made  of 
green  serpentine ;  '  Je  vois  cela  d'ici  et  je  niy 
chauffe'  Do  tell  me  how  you  passed  your  Christ- 
mas. .  .  .  My  own  was  very  solitary.  I  put  a 
few  bunches  of  holly  round  the  house,  and  had  a 
real  plum-pudding  for  myself  and  servants.  On 
the  whole,  I  think  I  enjoyed  myself — (Ies  lieux  ont 
une  dme]  and  the  soul  of  Vescovana  has  always 
inspired  me  to  thankfulness.  There  is  something 
soothing  in  these  old  walls,  and  I  love  them.  .  .  . 
I  hope  you  received  your  angels,  and  that  you  were 
pleased  with  them.  Fra  Angelico  ! — What  a  lovely 
creature  he  was  ?  Such  as  your  father  would  fancy, 
with  a  Roman  Catholic  Church  as  bodiless  as  his 
angels." 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION    23 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  manage  a  schoolroom  full 
of  strong  and  overbearing  young  people,  but  often 
it  happens  that  in  the  same  house,  up  in  the  nursery, 
the  most  fascinating  creatures  of  this  earth  live  their 
enchanted  lives,  and  fill  the  heart  of  the  weary 
governess  with  joy  and  with  refreshment.  To  the 
Contessa,  the  peasants,  the  bailiffs,  the  Members  of 
the  Municipio,  were  the  schoolroom,  but  the  "bovi" 
were  her  babies.  How  she  loved  them.  What 
soothing  certain  joy  their  presence  brought  her. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  this  almost  weirdly 
powerful  love  was  explained  by  a  pile  of  little  caps 
and  camisoles  which  had  never  been  used,  and 
which,  with  limp  and  faded  laces,  lay  in  the  big 
linen  presses  of  the  "  Farm."  All  through  her 
letters  runs  the  tale  of  the  cattle's  praises — the 
spirit  relaxes,  the  words  flow  out,  easy  and  placid  : — 

"Hinc  albi,  Clitumne,  greges  et  maxima  taurus 
Victima,  saepe  tuo  perfusi  flumine  sacro, 
Romanos  ad  templa  deum  duxere  triumphos. 

Don't  you  see  my  Magnifico  ?     Ah  !  Virgil  was  a 
Gromboolian  !  " 

The  naming  of  the  oxen  was  a  constant  source  of 
pleasure  and  excitement.  In  the  second  letter  which 
she  wrote  to  me,  she  says  :  "  I  must  not  conclude 
my  letter  without  giving  you  every  good  news  of 
my  cattle.     There  were  many  births  and  no  deaths 


24    PREFACE    TO   THE   SECOND  EDITION 

lately.  We  have  now  a  Sarpio  (for  Fra  Paolo), 
Steno,  Reale,  and  last,  but  not  least,  Farnesina — a 
perfect  beauty,  daughter  of  Farnese  and  Parma. 
Many  that  you  left  in  idle  thoughtlessness  have 
taken  to  working  very  hard,  and  do  their  duty  very 
bravely.  When  you  come  again  I  must  introduce 
you  to  '  Oca  '  and  '  Strindola.'  They  are  remark- 
able for  their  intelligence,  and  so  amusing  in  their 
ways.  .  .  .  There  was  a  case  of  sudden  death. 
Poor  Francese  died  while  he  was  ploughing,  and  I 
feel  his  loss.  Such  a  beautiful  bove  cannot  be  easily 
replaced." 

After  her  love  for  her  oxen  came  her  love  for  the 
garden.  This  last  was  perhaps  the  earlier  love,  and 
she  certainly  never  lost  it,  though  the  love  for  her 
cattle  held  the  stronger  fibres  of  her  heart  in  later 
years.  The  garden  was  a  toy — a  delightful  play- 
thing. It  was  well  that  it  meant  nothing  more 
serious,  for  infinite  were  the  trials  and  disappoint- 
ments of  the  gardener  in  that  sun-baked  plain, 
exposed  to  a  continual  succession  of  drought  and 
flood  and  ice,  according  to  the  season — a  climate  in 
which  such  a  luxury  as  an  English  lawn  had  better 
be  put  into  one's  bag  of  dreams  from  the  very 
outset.  Still  the  garden  was  there,  and  an  exquisite 
one  of  its  kind,  and  when  man  proved  himself 
at  times  vile  and  unworthy,  it  was  to  the  garden 
that  her  thoughts  were  ever  turned.     "  I  assure  you, 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION   25 

my  dear ,  that  when  I  have  discussed  for  some 

time  with  these  men  "  (this  refers  to  a  dispute  with 
her  bailiffs)  "I  am  perfectly  exhausted — I  cannot 
write  nor  read,  and  I  go  round  the  garden  to 
gather  new  thoughts  and  new  strength." 

It  was  while  "going  round  the  garden  gathering 
strength  "  that  I  first  really  learned  to  know  her,  for 
I  too  gardened  in  the  regions  of  my  mind,  and  at 
first  it  was  the  only  subject  I  ventured  to  discuss 
with  this  wonderful  lady.  That  is  where  I  see  her 
best  in  memory,  after  twenty  years,  her  splendid 
skirts,  for  she  was  always  a  joy  to  look  at,  gathered 
on  her  arm  as  she  went  slowly,  stooping  lovingly, 
from  bed  to  rock,  from  bush  to  bower.  She  never 
did  much  manual  work  herself,  although  she  loved 
to  imagine  it :  "I  have  at  last  begun  my  rock  garden, 
and  wish  your  mother  were  here  to  help  me.  We 
would  have  our  hands  in  mud  all  the  day  long  and 
feel  so  happy  !  "  In  another  place,  she  writes  :  "  If 
we  are  all  flooded  here  on  the  plain,  I  come  up 
to  Davos  to  help  your  mother  with  her  Alpine 
Garden." 

At  last  we  are  told  that  the  famous  rock  garden  is 
completed  :  "  It  looks  as  if  nothing  will  grow — a 
large  Mockery  all  over !  "  And  then  the  fountain, 
dedicated  to  me,  is  put  up.  It  came  from  Milan — 
a  beautiful  marble  shell,  with  a  dolphin  from  which 
the  water  ran:    "No  one  is  allowed  to  wash  their 


26    PREFACE   TO    THE  SECOND  EDITION 

hands  in  your  fountain  before  you  come  yourself, 
and  if  A.  attempts  to  do  so,  he  will  have  his  hands 
chopped  off  on  the  spot!"  But  there  was  not  much 
time  for  washing  hands.  Big  boards  had  to  be  pre- 
pared with  the  words  "Mockery"  and  "Walls  of 
Baal "  printed  upon  them,  so  that  there  could  be 
no  mistake.  We  ransacked  the  hills  for  roots, 
we  brought  back  from  the  Alps  every  description 
of  campanula  and  saxifrage.  Great  bushes  of 
rhubarb  and  splendid  flags  flourished  and  spread, 
but  the  frailer  flowers,  with  scarcely  an  exception, 
withered  away.  One  great  southern  squill  sur- 
vived and  blossomed  nobly.  "The  beautiful  Scilla 
Maritima  you  brought  to  me  from  Leucaspide 
came  out  the  other  day  on  the  ruins  of  the 
temple  of  Baal.  It  is  the  loveliest  thing  you  can 
imagine — tall,  slender,  and  such  a  spike  of  white 
and  delicate  flowers."  There  was  something  glorious, 
because  half  preposterous  in  the  "  Mockery"  :  "The 
Empress  (of  Germany)  was  delighted  with  the 
Mockery.  I  had  to  explain  it  to  her,  and  I 
have  an  idea  she  is  going  to  have  an  opposition 
'  Mockery.' " 

Perhaps  the  winter  on  that  Paduan  plain  was  her 
worst  enemy,  with  its  long  fogs  and  intense  cold. 
The  winter  of  1891  was  cruel  in  Northern  Italy. 
She  excuses  her  long  silence  :  "  The  fact  is,  I  have 
little  to  say  to  make  my  letters  pleasant.     I  could 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION    27 

speak  of  nothing  but  of  the  dreadful  weather  we 
have  had  lately,  and  of  the  mountains  of  snow  I  see 
from  my  windows  both  on  the  side  of  the  public 
road  as  well  as  that  of  the  garden.  Poor  babies  !  " 
(her  bulbs),  "  I  must  try  to  forget  them,  and  write 
to  Barr  to  send  me  bulbs  and  roots  again."  A  little 
later,  however,  we  get  better  news  :  "  We  went  out 
early  in  the  rain  and  took  the  few  flowers  that  have 
come  out  :  squills,  dog-tooth  violets  and  iris  stylosa 
and  reticulata  are  lovely  all  at  present.  The  rest 
have  suffered  very  much.  The  violets  are  just 
beginning.  I  envy  Mother's  window  garden.  My 
daffodils   are   very  poor,  only  a  few  Bicolor  which 

gave  me.     They  are  very  large  and  beautiful, 

like  everything  that  comes  from  Barr." 

Mr.  Barr,  I  may  say,  was  the  prophet  of  this 
Italian  garden.  "  Dear,  dear,  dear  Barr,"  she  writes, 
when  in  the  exalted  throes  of  creating  her  formal 
garden — called,  after  one  in  Mr.  Blomfield's  book, 
Crispin  de  Pass.  "  Barr  has  sent  me  no  end  of 
bulbs,  and  for  two  days  I  have  not  been  out  of  the 
garden.  I  have  left  stables  and  maize,  your  letters 
and  everything  else  unfinished.  How  may  we 
adorn  dear  Crispin  de  Pass !  How  we  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  he  will  surpass  even  the  garden  of 
S."  (a  hated  rival  on  the  plain) — "  is  more  than  I 
can  tell !  " 

Sad  days  came  in  harvest-time  when,  more  than  at 


28    PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

any  other  season,  the  new  plants  required  water. 
"The  gleaners"  (an  army  of  peasant  girls  who 
habitually  weeded  and  watered  in  the  garden), — "  the 
gleaners  go  on  in  the  most  marvellous  manner — they 
get  so  excited  in  the  fields  that  they  even  refuse  to 
come  to  the  garden.  They  seem  indifferent  to  the 
beauties  of  Crispin  de  Pass." 

So  far  I  have  spoken  only  of  the  outward  facts 
and  work  in  the  life  of  this  remarkable  woman, 
whom  a  mere  chance  had  placed  so  early  in  her  life 
in  a  remote,  neglected,  and  by  no  means  artistically 
beautiful  region  of  Northern  Italy.  I  wish  to  pass 
on  to  her  friendships,  which  were  an  integral  part  in 
her  life.  But  it  may  be  as  well  to  review  her 
position  first. 

Countess  Pisani  loved  beauty,  she  loved  art  and 
refinement,  and  the  intercourse  of  mind.  Every- 
thing in  the  whole  of  her  being  drew  her  in  those 
directions.  But  destiny,  or  duty,  decided  that  the 
greater  part  of  her  existence  should  be  passed  in  a 
huge  plain  redeemed  from  sterility  only  by  its  accu- 
mulations of  centuries  ot  mud.  This  puts  the  case 
nakedly,  and  the  pages  of  the  following  book  will 
not  really  refute  the  statement,  for  there  may  be  halos 
about  the  most  uncompromising  faces.  She  lived  on 
a  great  mud  plateau  between  two  dangerous  rivers 
which  threatened  continual  destruction  (see  p.  251). 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION   29 

She  lived  among  a  race  of  people  who  could  no  more 
understand  her  than  they  could  alter  the  courses 
of  the  stars.  She  had  a  large  intellect,  and  she 
grasped  the  fact  that  by  ceaseless  vigilance  and 
cultivation  the  mud-bank  could  yield  a  splendid 
store  of  crops,  and  its  people  and  its  animals  could 
enjoy,  instead  of  merely  enduring,  a  life  of  compara- 
tive happiness  and  plenty.  She  made  it  her  business 
to  insure  these  facts  ;  and  she  succeeded.  She  had 
a  splendid  vivid  spirit,  and  she  never  for  a  day 
allowed  the  flame  to  flicker  ;  but  there  must  have 
been  moments,  in  her  early  widowhood  anyhow, 
when  only  some  intense  feeling  of  loyalty  could  have 
held  her  to  her  post.  She  was  a  woman  absolutely 
alone.  She  might  well  have  sat  upon  a  throne,  for 
she  had  a  genuine  capacity  for  rule,  and  I  never 
knew  her  waver  when  once  her  judgment  was 
convinced.  She  admitted  no  compromise.  Some 
may  have  said  that  there  was  more  of  the  tyrant 
than  of  the  diplomat  in  her  ;  but  this  was  what  made 
her  great.  She  had  inborn  convictions  about  breeding 
and  race,  and  the  superiority  of  mind  over  matter. 

Unlike  some  labourers,  she  actually  lived  to  see 
the  fruits  of  her  vineyard.  The  beautiful  order  of 
her  farms,  the  neatness  of  her  roads,  the  Eastern 
splendour  within  the  walls  of  what,  after  all,  was  just 
a  huge  farmhouse  ;  the  general  healthy  and  cleanly 
look  of  her  peasants,  and  the  surpassing  beauty  of 


30    PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

her  cattle — all  these  things  had  become  proverbs  in 
the  surrounding  country  before  her  death.  But 
before  passing  to  her  outside  interests,  there  is  one 
point  on  which  I  must  touch,  and  without  which  the 
courage  of  her  life  could  not  actually  be  understood. 
The  just  man  is  not  necessarily  popular  or  beloved 
in  his  day,  however  much  his  works  may  live 
after  him.  I  think  that  most  of  the  women,  and 
many  of  her  farmers  honoured  and  respected  her  ; 
but  she  always,  even  in  the  heat  of  summer,  drove 
about  her  property  in  a  shut  carriage.  At  the  head 
of  her  bed,  and  just  within  reach  of  her  hand,  a 
loaded  pistol,  polished  and  ready,  invariably  hung. 
This  weapon,  which  meant  so  much  in  that  coura- 
geous life,  caused  in  my  young  democratic  (and  very 
ignorant)  days,  an  indescribable  revolt.  As  I  sat  by 
her  bedside  in  the  early  morning,  talking  quietly 
with  my  friend — the  doves  and  all  those  birds  she 
loved  cooing  and  twittering  at  her  window,  and  the 
scent  of  the  hidden  garden  beyond  blown  in  over  the 
pergola — I  always  tried  to  see  her  face  without 
the  weapon  up  above  it,  for  it  was,  if  I  may  say  so, 
the  pin  in  the  porridge  of  my  love  for  her.  In  later 
years  I  have  been  able  to  understand  more  whole- 
heartedly the  courage  of  that  noble  life  of  an 
intellectual,  sensitive,  and  loving  woman,  set  in  such 
an  alien  solitude  and  all  the  struggle  that  it  must 
have  meant  for  her. 


PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION    31 

I  have  spoken  of  her  as  living  her  life  alone,  but  I 
would  wish  to  mention  here  the  name  of  that  faithful 
friend  and  guardian  of  her  interests — the  parish 
priest,  Don  Antonio,  whose  ceaseless  care  and  vigi- 
lance saved  her  at  very  many  points  from  what  would 
otherwise  have  been  the  unendurable  strain  of  a 
solitary  rule.  Perhaps  he  did  not  take  much  part  in 
the  personal  management  of  the  property,  but  he 
kept  the  accounts — every  document  passed  through 
his  hands — he  interceded  for  the  poor,  and  gave 
interest  to  her  leisure  hours  by  his  own  remark- 
ably wide  intellectual  interests.  "  Without  Don 
Antonio,"  writes  one  who  knew  and  loved  her 
best,  "  I  do  not  see  how  she  could  have  held  her 
ground  amongst  a  population  such  as  that  she  had 
to  deal  with." 

Many  people  who  live  much  alone  become  sus- 
picious and  morose.  She,  on  the  contrary,  never 
lost    her    power    of  forming    new    friendships.     "  I 

knew at  once,"  she  writes,  "  but  I  have  an  eye 

that  looks  into  the  souls  of  those  I  love,  and  besides, 
I  am  an  old  woman,  accustomed  to  study  those  with 
whom  I  come  in  contact."  Of  her  strong,  intuitive 
love  for  her  friends,  and  notably  for  high-minded 
and  therefore  sometimes  misrepresented  women, 
touches  occur  again  and  again.  They  are  too 
personal  for  publication,  and   yet   with  their  burn- 


32    PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

ing  declamation  against  the  envy  and  meanness  of 
detraction,  they  might  profit  any  public.  Beautiful 
herself,  she  loved  beauty  in  others.  In  her  many 
wonderful  recollections,  I  can  remember  nothing 
more  vivid  or  delightful  than  her  accounts  of  the 
beautiful  women  she  had  known.  "  I  wish  people 
would  admire  other  people  without  feeling  envious," 
she  cries. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  fit  in  her  friends  with 
the  daily  round  of  her  duties.  She  loved  nothing 
better  than  to  fill  her  big  house  with  parties  of 
friends,  but  the  arrears  of  work  to  which  she  re- 
turned when  the  guests  had  departed  were  formid- 
able. "  I  found  out  at  last  after  sixty  years  that 
I  must  be  left  alone  to  be  able  to  fulfil  my  duties. 
I  get  so  excited  when  friends  are  staying  with  me 
that  I  do  nothing  but  rush  after  them."  ..."  I 
am  always  busy,"  she  writes  in  another  letter,  "  and 
my  days  are  made  very  short  for  many  reasons.  I 
must  rise  very  late,  go  to  bed  very  early,  get  some 
rest  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  what  time  remains 
I  have  to  give  orders  for  the  house,  attend  to 
business  of  various  kinds  and  find  moments  for  a 
little  reading.  I  envy  those  who  are  able  to  do 
more  and  make  their  life  more  useful  to  others. 
I  never  was  very  strong,  but  of  late  years  I  begin 
to  feel  '  il  peso  degli  annij  and  nothing  but  heart 
and   soul    is   young   in   me.      I    suppose  that    this 


PREFACE   TO   THE  SECOND  EDITION   33 

feeling  of  old  age  coming  on  makes  me  cling  more 
than  ever  to  young  people."      Speaking  of  an  old 

lady  friend  she  says  :     "  Dear has  found  her 

way  back  to  A.,  and  I  hope  she  enjoys  her  garden. 
It  strikes  me  that  she  prefers  roaming  about  to 
remaining  quietly  at  home.  I  myself  have  always 
wished  to  have  a  large  arm-chair  for  my  old  age, 
and  to  sit  like  a  picture  with  plenty  of  young 
people  round  me."  It  is  perhaps  not  necessary 
to  say  that  all  young  people  loved  her  in  return. 
Almost  unconsciously  she  taught  them  a  hundred 
truths.  If  herself  a  little  embittered  at  certain 
points  by  the  spectacle  of  human  weakness  and 
lack  of  truth,  she  touched  on  this  topic  only  lightly 
with  her  girl  friends,  and  told  them  rather  of  all  the 
possibilities  of  splendour  in  their  lives.  "  I  think 
it  is  good  for  girls  of  your  age  to  have  a  friend 
much  older  than  themselves.  We  can  discuss  many 
things  together,  and  I  give  you  a  little  of  my 
experience  which  has  brought  me  to  love  every- 
thing that  is  beautiful  and  taught  me  how  much 
good  is  in  the  world."  And  she  loved,  with  a  sort 
of  humble  reverence,  the  goodness  and  purity  of 
young  people.  Speaking  of  a  young  English  girl, 
who  certainly  was  above  the  common  mould,  and 
who  possessed,  combined  with  rare  beauty,  a  sort 
of  mediaeval  candour  of  soul,  she  says  :  "  I  never 
before   wished   for  a  sister,  but   I  now   see  what  a 

3 


34    PREFACE   TO   THE   SECOND  EDITION 

blessing  one  can    be — a   long   source  of  happiness 

all  through  life.     I  felt,  when was  with  me,  that 

her  influence  was  of  the  best.  She  has  done  me 
more  good  than  many  books.  How  much  a  woman, 
however  young,  can  do  when  she  is  thoroughly 
good  and  sweet !  I  do  not  think  she  was  aware 
of  the  many  lessons  she  gave  me — sometimes  it 
was  merely  a  look."  It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  give 
her  presents — she  so  delighted  in  even  the  most 
trifling  offering.  "  I  think  you  are  all  too  good  to 
me,"  she  writes,  after  the  receipt  of  various  roots, 
pictures,  and  curious  oddments,  "  and  I  am  trying 
to  think  what  I  can  do  for  you.  I  wish  I  were 
not  so  old,  stupid  and  ignorant,  but  I  cannot  help 
it.  I  feel  as  though  I  were  not  up  to  the  mark, 
and  I  vainly  try  to  improve.  Of  course,  old  age 
and  stupidity  cannot  be  mended,  but  we  could  do 
something  to  lessen  the  dose  of  ignorance."  Whereat 
she  sets  forth  on  a  whole  host  of  new  studies,  and 
re-reads  Homer  and  buries  herself  in  her  beloved 
Machiavelli  and  Virgil.  This  haunting  sense  of 
mental  incapacity,  which  I  think  often  accompanies 
brain  power  with  women  whose  lives  are  necessarily 
crowded  with  practical  detail,  is  continually  men- 
tioned with  comic  lamentations.  Speaking  of  the 
Georgics,  she  says  :  "I  enjoy  them  so  much,  and 
yet  I  do  not  know  a  word  of  Latin  (!).  Some 
one    hundred   and    fifty    years   ago   I    took    some 


PREFACE   TO    THE  SECOND  EDITION   35 

lessons  from  a  certain  priest.  He  gave  me  up 
in  despair.  The  fact  is  all  my  masters  got 
tired  of  me  ;  they  found  me  too  stupid.  That 
accounts  for  my  extreme  ignorance  and  incapacity 
for  doing  anything  well.  I  am  sure  you  have  heard 
of,  or  even  may  have  seen,  women  who  are  what  the 
French  call  '  une  belle  laide.y  Well,  there  are  also 
persons  of  my  sort  who  one  might  call  '  une  stupide 
intelligente'  This  used  to  make  me  miserable,  but 
now  I  get  reconciled  to  my  lot,  and  feel  very 
thankful  that  I  can  enjoy  the  intelligence  of  other 
people." 

.  .  .  .  . 

She  simply  adored  masquerade,  and  she  had  a  sort 
of  passion  for  "  dressing  up."  I  shall  never  forget 
a  cold  April  night,  when  the  desire  to  see  us 
"  dressed  "  at  any  cost  came  up  and  overpowered 
her.  My  father  was  expected  by  a  late  train 
from  Venice.  My  eldest  sister  and  I  put  on  our 
accustomed  evening  gowns,  and  appeared  as  usual 
in  the  drawing-room.  "  This  cannot  be,"  cried  the 
Contessa,  herself  in  splendid  brocade,  and  she 
swept  us  to  her  own  apartments.  All  the  candles 
had  to  be  relighted  on  the  dressing-table.  I  think 
there  were  "clusters"  of  candles  when  the  Contessa's 
toilette  was  in  progress.  The  bewildered  lady's- 
maid  ransacked  the  cupboards  and  the  drawers. 
Glorious  headgear,  entangled  fichus,  gauze  Turkish 


36    PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

bodices  and  beads  were  lavishly  overhauled.  Our 
hair  was  pulled  down  and  repinned  up  with  the 
most  amazing  hair-pins.  Glancing  about  me 
nervously  and  in  decided  discomfort,  I  thought 
that  I  detected  an  expression  of  amazed  uncertainty 
on  the  face  of  the  well-trained  handmaiden.  My 
father  arrived — we  got  through  the  dinner.  He 
was  tired,  and  his  head,  I  suppose,  was  full  of  some 
new  scheme  for  work.  The  evening  wore  on,  the 
Contessa  could  contain  herself  no  longer,  she  was  so 
gloriously  happy  in  her  transformations.  "  Well !  " 
she  cried,  "and  what  do  you  think  of  your 
daughters  ?  "  My  father  glanced  at  us—"  I  had 
been  thinking  they  looked  rather  untidy,"  he  said. 


Yes,  they  were  gay  days  that  young  people  spent 
under  the  roof  of  the  Doge's  Farm  !  But  she  did 
not  only  see  her  friends  at  Vescovana  ;  she  some- 
times went  to  stay  in  her  town  house  at  Venice, 
taking  with  her  all  her  country  retinue.  Then  the 
beautiful  rooms  on  the  ■piano  nobile  of  the  Palazzo 
Barbaro  were  opened  up.  They  were  typical 
Venetian  rooms  with  long  rows  of  Gothic  windows 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  tiny  white  lions  guarding 
the  balconies.  Their  chief  adornment  was  a  great 
family  portrait  of  Almord  II.  and  his  family  painted 
by  Pietro  Longhi.     The  town  house  was  fitted  up 


PREFACE   TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION    37 

perhaps  more  sumptuously  than  that  in  the  country, 
but  it  had  the  same  pervading  and  individual  charm. 
There  were  lots  of  mirrors  and  a  little  fountain  in 
the  drawing-room.  She  always  arrived  with  a  pile 
of  wooden  boxes  full  of  flowers,  and  after  she  had 
been  there  an  hour  the  place  looked  like  a  bower. 
In  October,  1889,  she  writes  from  her  Venetian 
home  :  "  I  came  here  a  week  ago,  summoned  by 
telegram  from  Lady  Layard.  The  day  of  my 
arrival  I  dined  with  Lord  S.  and  Captain  L.,  of  the 
Osborne,  and  many  others  of  the  suite  of  the  Prince 
and  Princess  of  Wales.  Such  a  contrast  with  the 
rustics  of  Vescovana,  and  their  wild  manners  !  I 
was  invited  to  luncheon  (at  Lady  Layard's)  with 
the  Royal  party,  and  sat  next  to  Prince  George, 
who  insisted  on  the  necessity  of  my  going  to 
England.  I  was  allowed  to  present  to  the  Princess 
a  Venetian  Zecchino  (Doge  Pisani's).  She  looked 
pleased,  and  thanked  me  in  such  an  unaffected,  girlish 
way  that  quite  took  my  heart.  I  had  not  seen  the 
Prince  since  he  was  nineteen,  and  we  remembered 
together  Rome  and  the  '  Moccoletti.' " 

She  loved  to  fill  her  house  with  guests.  She 
loved  to  exchange  the  myriads  of  thoughts  accu- 
mulated through  the  long  weeks  and  months  and 
years  of  her  own  isolated  life,  with  men  and  women 
whose  existence  was  passed  amongst  their  equals  in 
the  busy  world  of  cities. 


38    PREFACE    TO   THE   SECOND  EDITION 

Friends  who  loved  the  Contessa  have  asked  that 
in  this  little  sketch  I  should  try  to  give  some 
account  of  her  curiously  versatile  conversation. 
But,  alas  !  there  is  nothing  which  it  is  more  im- 
possible to  reproduce  than  the  talk  of  cultivated 
people.  It  is  far  more  easy  to  render  the  slow  and 
painful  words  of  peasants,  though  even  this,  as  often 
as  not,  produces  a  mere  parody.  The  Contessa's 
words  are  passed — they  are  gone,  and  we  may  not 
recall  them.  We  can  only  say  that  she  combined 
the  intuitions  of  a  woman  with  a  virile  power  of 
reasoning,  and  that  she  would  hold  her  own  with 
any  brilliant  talker  or  group  of  talkers.  Men  de- 
lighted in  her  quick  wit,  realising  that  it  was  no 
mere  outward  tinsel,  but  covered  a  profound  and 
steady  source  of  knowledge,  the  product  of  much 
study  and  incessant  thinking.  Life  had  shown  her 
many  lessons,  books  perhaps  had  taught  her  even 
more.  She  looked  on  eagerly  at  the  human  pageant, 
read  papers,  magazines,  and  all  new  books  of  in- 
terest. She  looked  on.  She  was  a  woman  of  the 
world,  but  her  "  life  of  the  world  "  was  a  life  lived 
only  in  imagination,  lived  by  hearsay,  not  by  con- 
tact. She  was  a  strong  Catholic,  and  more  and 
more  she  leant  on  the  Church  for  her  support.  She 
brought  a  keen,  if  perhaps  too  conservative,  a  judg- 
ment to  bear  upon  the  politics  of  nations,  and  she 
drew  conclusions  which  she  had  had  ample  leisure  to 


PREFACE   TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION    39 

balance  carefully.  She  passionately  loved  united 
Italy,  and  desired  her  welfare.  How  much  one 
wishes  that  she  might  have  lived  to  realise  her  pre- 
sent comparative  advance  and  prosperity  ! 

The  strong  active  brain,  the  eager  and  deeply 
affectionate  spirit  could  not  rest.  Was  it  wasted 
there  in  that  remote  farm-villa  on  the  plains  ?  .  .  . 
Would  we,  who  loved  her,  have  had  it  trained  on 
Boards  and  in  Committee-rooms,  and  a  tangle  of 
so-called  philanthropy  and  "  causes  "  ?  .  .  .  I  think 
we  may  answer  No.  The  Contessa  was  fitted  to 
her  place.  Like  a  rare  jewel  set  in  a  single  band 
of  iron,  she  stands  alone  in  memory.  The  flurry 
and  fuss,  and  self-importance,  of  many  women  in 
small  provincial  towns  and  villages,  were  alien  to  her 
nature,  and  would  indeed,  had  she  adopted  them, 
have  spoiled  her  great  and  curious  qualities. 

The  Contessa  was  fitted  to  her  place  ;  and  the 
little  circle  of  friends  who  gathered  round  her  table 
at  rare  intervals  gained  a  unique,  refreshing,  and 
delightful  human  experience  such  as  is  accorded  to 
few  in  a  lifetime. 

I  think  that  quite  one  of  the  most  attractive  points 
which  draws  imaginative  young  people  to  persons  of 
an  older  generation  is  their  link  with  what  must 
always  seem  at  least  to  be  a  more  splendid  past  than 
their  own  present.     The  old  age  of  giants  dies  out 


40    PREFACE    TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

before  the  growing  one  has  a  chance  to  develop,  and 
so  we  always  believe  that  the  generation  before  our 
own  was  one  of  greatness,  compared  to  which  we 
ourselves  are  paltry  pigmies.  It  is  possible,  of  course, 
that  the  generation  which  grew  up  in  the  first  part 
of  the  nineteenth  century  was  an  exceptional  one — 
people  had  the  "  great  manner "  then — persons 
had  the  almost  extinct  noun,  "  presence."  The 
Contessa's  experience  was  a  long  one,  and  her 
memory  travelled  back  to  the  great  social  days  of 
Byron  in  Italy  ;  when  people  did  nothing  by  halves, 
but  sat  in  their  carriages  when  they  crossed  the 
Channel,  and  trundled  in  these  same  chariots 
through  the  gates  of  Rome.  Italian  society,  too, 
was  different  then — duller  probably,  but  grander 
in  its  exclusive  isolation.  There  was  something 
which  savoured  strongly  of  the  ct  grand  manner " 
about  the  Contessa's  early  reminiscences.  She  was 
a  wonderful  raconteuse,  and  no  letters  and  no  amount 
of  descriptive  writing  can  ever  bring  back  her  stories 
and  her  curious  and  shrewd  judgments. 

She  sat  sometimes  in  her  old  Lombard  house 
amidst  the  lonely  plains,  and  looked  back  into  the 
past  with  some  stray  traveller  who  still  frequented 
the  ruins  of  that  world  from  which  she  herself  was 
withdrawn  some  forty  years  ago  :  "  The  Marchese 
G.  stayed  with  me  some  days,  and  we  had  long 
conversations  about  our  Roman  friends.     It  is  so 


PREFACE    TO   THE  SECOND  EDITION   41 

sad  for  me  to  hear  that  one  after  the  other  they  all 
are  ruined.  I  have  always  been  a  great  friend  of  the 
Borgheses,  and  the  present  prince  is  a  particular 
friend  of  mine.  I  am  afraid  they  are  going  to  sell 
the  palace,  the  villa,  and  their  most  splendid  gallery 
of  pictures.  The  Rome  of  my  youth  is  disappear- 
ing, and  I  mourn  over  it."  She  fitted  on  to  all  that 
was  best  in  the  existing  Venetian  society.  "  Countess 
M.  is  also  dead.  She  was  comparatively  a  young 
woman — only  fifty-two — and  still  very  beautiful 
and  full  of  life.  Her  funeral,  I  am  told,  was 
something  splendid — such  flowers  as  are  rarely  seen 
in  Venice.   .  .  . 

"  '  Full  canisters  or  fragrant  lilies  bring, 
Mixed  with  the  purple  roses  of  the  spring.' 

— You  see  I  am  still  reading  Virgil." 

I  have  described  her  love  for  her  actual  friends, 
but  she  possessed,  too,  a  curious  faculty  for  visual- 
ising and  actually  loving  people  she  had  never  seen, 
and  some  of  whom  were  dead.  She  could  enter  with 
a  sort  of  intuitive  instinct  into  their  lives.  For  my 
mother's  sister,  Miss  Marianne  North,  the  traveller, 
whom,  unfortunately,  she  never  met,  she  conceived 
one  of  these  sincere  affections,  and  throughout  the 
letters  there  are  many  allusions  to  her,  and  laments 
that  she    cannot  assist  in  the   construction  of  the 


42    PREFACE   TO    THE   SECOND  EDITION 

garden.  "  On  All  Soul's  Day,  I  remembered  dear 
Aunt  Pop,  and  prayed  for  her.  I  must  have  a  part 
of  my  garden  consecrated  to  her.  I  hope  there  will 
be  beautiful  flowers  in  heaven.  The  Turks  say 
that  to  plant  a  flower  is  to  do  an  action  pleasing  to 
God.  How  many  thousands  of  good  actions  has 
your  dear  Aunt  done  in  her  life  !  " 

On  June  25,  1902,  the  Contessa  passed  from 
this  life.  Her  illness  was  very  sudden.  It  fell  on  a 
Sunday  night ;  in  the  following  dawn  she  died.  It 
was  just  in  the  height  of  the  harvest  season.  Did 
she  hear,  as  she  passed,  the  long,  low  call  of  the 
reapers — that  cry  which  had  always  reminded  her 
of  the  "Muezzin"  or  call  to  prayer  from  the  mosques 
in  her  Eastern  home  ?  One  likes  to  think  that  she 
heard  it ;  and  men  rise  early  in  harvest-time.  Her 
nature  was  spiritual,  and  her  religious  faith  had  long 
been  drawing  her  into  wider  fields  than  those  which 
on  this  earth  she  had  so  wisely  tended.  There  was 
nothing  to  dread  ;  no  languor  and  no  possibility  of 
fear  in  her  passing.  One  friend  was  with  her — he 
who  in  life  had  been  the  careful  keeper  of  her 
interests ;  otherwise  she  was  alone.  "  No  relation 
stood  beside  her  at  the  last,"  writes  the  brother 
whom  she  so  much  loved.  "  There  was  no  time  for 
me  to  get  to  her  funeral.  It  is  sad,  but  there  was  so 
much   loneliness   and    independence    in    her  life    at 


PREFACE   TO   THE  SECOND  EDITION   43 

Vescovana  that  a  lonely  death  may  seem  in  keeping 
with  what  went  before." 

They  buried  her  beside  her  husband  in  the  chapel 
at  the  end  of  the  garden  which  she  had  planned  and 
planted,  and  where  she  had  loved  every  leaf  and  bud. 

11  Chi  ha  terra  ha  guerra."  She  was  tired  like  all 
hard  workers,  and  people  who,  "  unable  to  shatter 
this  world  to  bits,"  at  least  "remould  it  closer  to 
the  heart's  desire." 

This  is  a  translation  of  the  Latin  inscription 
written  on  her  grave  : — 

"  Here  sleeps  Evelina,  Countess  Pisani,  widow  of 
Almoro  Pisani,  whose  life  may  be  summed  up  in 
these  short  words,  which  she  herself  desired  should 
be  carved  here  : 

"  Behold,  I  have  loved  justice  and  hated  iniquity." 


MARGARET   VAUGHAN. 


Giggleswick,  Yorkshire, 
February   18,   1908. 


PREFACE 

IT  was  under  my  father's  influence  and  with  his 
*  help  that  this  small  book  was  written.  Living 
for  awhile  a  life  apart  from  his,  I  always  thought 
of  him,  and  for  him  I  chronicled  the  things  I  saw 
and  did.  When  I  came  home  we  read  those 
chronicles  together,  laughing  at  the  crudities  which 
he  forgave.  He  promised  to  write  an  Introduction 
for  the  book,  which  would  have  brought  it  more 
together  and  given  it  a  point  by  showing  the  his- 
torical interest  of  the  country  which  I,  through 
ignorance,  have  only  superficially  described  ;  and, 
chiefly,  he  meant  to  dwell  on  Virgil's  connection 
with  the  Lombard  scenes. 

My  father  and  I  were  on  our  way  to  Vescovana, 
where  he  hoped  to  write  this  Preface,  when  he  fell 
ill.  In  Rome  he  died.  The  writing  seems  to  me 
now  incomplete — a  thing  with  the  spirit  gone  out 
of  it.  But  my  father's  marks  are  over  all  the 
manuscript  ;  and  because  he  liked  the  book,  because 
he  took  an  interest  in  it  and  wanted  me  to  print 

45 


46  PREFACE 

it,  I  do  so  now,  and  give  it  back  to  him,  the 
strength  of  whose  love  and  influence  it  was  which 
taught  me  since  childhood  to  love  and  understand 
a  little,  not  only  the  charm  of  a  Doge's  Farm, 
but  of  the  whole  and  living  world. 

MARGARET   SYMONDS. 
Davos  Platz,  July  3,  1893. 


LAMPS   OF  THE   PISANI  ADMIRAL. 


INTRODUCTION 


A  LL  travellers  beyond  the  Alps  are  well 
■**  acquainted  with  the  plain  of  Lombardy — that 
immense  body  of  land  lying  like  a  prostrate  giant 
over  Northern  Italy.  The  giant's  head  is  crowned 
by  Apennines  and  Alps,  his  feet  are  bathed  by  the 
Adriatic,  and  down  his  entire  length  run  the  rivers 
Ticino,  Adige,  and  Po.  That  which  I  have  called 
the  giant — what  is  generally  known  as  the  Lombard 
Plain — is  really  a  broad  valley  scooped  out  ages  ago 
by  those  three  great  Alpine  rivers.  Many  of  its 
northern  cities  are  familiar  to  the  tourist,  and  it  is 
certain  that  even  the  most  hurried  traveller  pushes 
eastward  to  Venice.  But  the  part  which  I  describe 
is  all  unknown  to  the  inquiring  stranger.     It  offers 


47 


48  INTRODUCTION 

few  attractions  to  the  student  of  art  or  of  history. 
The  painter  hitherto  has  shown  no  desire  to  put  its 
charms  on  canvas.  Quietly  and  unobserved  life  passes 
there.  Virgil,  it  is  true,  observed  it  long  ago.  The 
Georgics  are  immortal,  but  the  land  which  gave  them 
birth  is  little  trodden  by  their  readers.  And  there 
the  seed  is  sown,  the  corn  is  reaped,  the  grain 
gathered  into  the  granaries,  while  the  daily  trains 
rush  past  to  Bologna,  Mantua,  Venice,  or  Ferrara  ; 
none  of  their  multitudes  descend  upon  those  flat  and 
cultivated  fields  which  offer  scant  diversion  to  the 
lover  of  art  or  the  seekers  after  pleasure.  The 
actual  interest  of  this  country  will  be  acknowledged 
by  the  agriculturist  alone  ;  its  attraction  only  by  one 
who  has  abundant  leisure,  and  takes  delight  in  every 
side  of  Nature  and  in  the  workings  of  man  amongst 
them. 

The  actual  part  of  the  country  which  I  have 
attempted  to  describe  goes  in  the  maps  by  the  name 
of  Bassa  Padovana.  It  is  that  sea  of  fertile  land, 
bounded  by  the  Euganean  Hills  and  the  Adriatic, 
which  Shelley  has  described  so  wonderfully  well. 
Lombardy  comes  up  to  meet  it ;  Venetia  and 
Padua  claim  it  for  their  own.  It  has  a  charm  which 
is  peculiar  to  itself — a  green,  grey  melancholy  ;  an 
absolute  and  endless  calm.  Even  in  storms  you 
feel  an  infinite  space  of  heaven  around  the  bit  ot 
sky  where  the  hubbub  rages ;  and  when  that  whole 


INTRODUCTION  49 

sky  is  a  serene  blue  the  sense  of  accumulated  sunshine 
falling  unchecked  across  innumerable  miles  of  un- 
broken fields  can  boast  a  solemn  beauty  all  its  own. 
Something  of  this  charm  may  be  found  in  every 
plain,  but  in  this  special  one  the  nearness  of  the 
lagoons  increases  it,  I  fancy. 

As  I  have  shown  in  the  first  chapter,  the  country 
is  partly  artificial — that  is  to  say,  it  has  been  culti- 
vated with  enormous  pains  and  at  great  expense  for 
over  six  hundred  years.  But  even  now  it  is  yearly 
threatened  with  destruction.  The  river  Adige 
crosses  this  smooth  plain  (which  has  a  fall  of  only 
seven  and  a  half  metres  in  the  space  of  thirty-four 
miles)  before  it  can  reach  the  sea.  The  Adige  bears 
with  it  all  the  waters  of  the  distant  Alps,  and  deposits 
in  its  slow  progress  all  those  vast  accumulations  of 
mountain  sediment  which  in  due  time  pile  up  an 
artificial  mountain  in  the  actual  bed  of  the  river 
which  brought  them.  Thus  the  very  cause  of  the 
land's  fertility  (its  abundant  water  supply)  may 
prove  its  ruin  ;  and  not  all  the  intricate  system  of 
canals  and  ditches  can  save  those  flourishing  fields 
on  the  day  when  the  big  river  breaks  its  banks. 
These  banks  are  calculated  to  inspire  something  like 
panic  in  the  mind  of  the  most  ignorant  observer. 
They  rise  to  a  height  of  from  twenty-six  to  twenty- 
nine  feet  above  the  level  of  the  land,  and  the  church- 
spires  and  houses  which  once  commanded  now  are 

4 


So  INTRODUCTION 

shadowed  by  these  mountainous  dykes.  Standing 
on  their  summit,  you  see  the  entire  plain  for 
miles  spread  like  a  map  below  you.  Interminable 
fields  of  corn  or  maize,  stretching  between  ditches 
hedged  by  mulberry  and  willow,  with  here  and 
there  a  mud  hut  or  a  stable,  now  and  then  a 
small,  thin  campanile.  In  the  far  background  faint 
shadows  of  the  Alps  arise,  and  on  the  breeze  a 
suspicion  of  salt  air  is  borne  from  the  invisible 
lagoon. 

In  the  heart  of  this  country,  and  in  the  house 
of  one  of  its  most  active  inhabitants — Countess 
Pisani — it  has  often  been  my  privilege  to  stay. 
This  lady  is  an  admirer  of  the  works  of  Edward 
Lear,  and  has  bestowed  upon  her  country  the  name 
of  Gromboolia,  which  hitherto  undiscovered  land 
is  often  mentioned  in  Lear's  poems.  The  title  is 
so  exactly  adapted  to  the  country  that  I  shall  not 
scruple  to  adopt  it  in  the  following  pages.  She  has 
also  called  her  house  the  "  Doge's  Farm."  For  it 
was  in  Gromboolia  that  the  families  of  old  Venetian 
doges  made  their  land  settlements  ;  and  I  have  shown 
in  what  manner  the  Pisani  family  bought  and  culti- 
vated a  part  of  it.  These  nobles  spent  most  of  their 
spare  money  in  decorating  and  living  sumptuously 
within  their  city  palaces  ;  their  country  house  was 
built  in  a  style  more  suited  to  their  bailiffs.  It  is 
probable  that  the  Pisani  doge  never  even  came  to 


INTRODUCTION  51 

Vescovana  ;  it  is  certain  that  he  lived  long  centuries 
after  the  land  had  been  bought  ;  at  a  time,  indeed, 
when  it  was  falling  into  decay  together  with  the 
Republic.  I  must,  therefore,  openly  acknowledge 
that  the  title  of  "  Doge's  Farm  "  was  bestowed  more 
for  the  sake  of  its  new  and  pleasing  sound  than  for 
any  historical  fitness  in  the  term. 

Also  I  acknowledge  that  this  small  book  is  half  a 
jest.  It  contains  few  facts  and  little  history.  Letters 
and  notes  written  out  of  a  happy  time,  I  put  together 
and  give  them  here.  Any  local  information  con- 
tained in  the  book  I  owe  to  the  kindness  and  accurate 
knowledge  of  my  friend,  Countess  Pisani,  who  showed 
me  the  things  which  I  describe,  and  who  also  supplied 
me  with  those  photographs  of  Pisani  portraits  and 
of  local  views  which  have  been  reproduced  in  the 
following  pages.  The  remainder  of  the  illustrations 
are  from  my  own  sketches. 


NOTE  TO   THE   SECOND   EDITION 

Some  fresh  illustrations  have  been  added  to  the  Second 
Edition  of  this  book,  but  the  country  described  is  one  of  which 
it  is  practically  impossible  to  obtain  satisfactory  photographs  or 
sketches.  The  professional  photographer  never  approaches  it, 
and   the  cleverest  amateur  is  baffled  by  the   immensity  of  the 


52  INTRODUCTION 

horizon  and  the  comparative  lack  of  foreground  and  of  detail. 
Thanks  to  Mr.  Walter  Leaf,  Professor  F.  Trombini,  and  my 
husband,  I  have,  however,  been  able  to  gather  together  a  few 
beautiful  and  typical  pictures  of  the  country,  the  people,  and 
the  oxen  ;  and  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  acknowledge  their 
help  in  this  place. 


HOME  OF  THE   LONG-TAILED  TIT. 


CHAPTER    I 


RISE  OF  THE   PISANIS  AND  PURCHASE  OF  VESCOVANA 


'  I  'HE  Pisani  family  were  not  of  Venetian  origin. 
*  We  find  the  following  account  of  them  in  the 
Libro  d'Oro  :  The  family  removed  about  the  year 
905  from  Pisa  to  Venice,  on  account  of  party  feuds, 
and  was  included  in  the  Patriciate  at  the  closing  of 
the  Great  Council.  Luigi  Pisani  was  Doge  in  1 735  ; 
Francesco  and  Alvise  were  Cardinals  of  the  Holy 


53 


54  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

Church  ;  and  the  family  reckons  a  very  long  series 
of  worthy  citizens  adorned  by  the  most  conspicuous 
dignities  of  the  State." 

The  Pisanis  were  originally  merchants  in  skins, 
and  travelled  regularly  once  a  year  from  Pisa  to 
Venice  in  order  to  sell  their  wares.  In  the  year  905, 
as  the  above  quotation  from  the  Libro  d'Oro  shows, 
they  removed  from  their  native  town  and  took  up 
their  final  abode  in  Venice.  We  hear  little  or 
nothing  of  importance  concerning  any  member  of 
the  family  in  connection  with  Venetian  affairs  till 
the  year  1355,  when  Beltrame  Pelizzaro  (a  Pisani) 
discovered  the  plot  of  Doge  Marin  Fallier  against 
the  Republic.  This  Beltrame  thought  himself  in- 
jured by  the  Republic,  in  that  his  discovery  had  not 
been  better  rewarded,  and  by  his  huge  demands  for 
money  he  first  brought  the  family  into  evidence. 

At  this  time  it  was  the  fashion  in  Venice  for  its 
nobles  and  citizens  to  purchase  estates  upon  the 
mainland,  partly  with  a  view  to  agricultural  profit, 
but  chiefly  as  a  safeguard  in  case  of  an  attack  upon 
their  city  from  country  neighbours — a  belt  around 
the  lagoon.  Thus  in  the  year  1468  a  member  of  the 
Pisani  family  purchased  from  the  Marquises  of  Ferrara 
a  grant  of  land,  and  in  1688  they  renewed  the  settle- 
ments and  regained  all  those  privileges  which  the 
Emperor  Frederick  II.  bestowed  upon  the  house  of 
Este    in    1200.     These   privileges,   I    may   as   well 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  55 

mention,  continue  for  the  convenience  of  Vescovana 
proprietors  up  to  the  end  of  this  civilised  nineteenth 
century,  and  the  weekly  fair  of  the  country  is  held 
regularlyin  the  miniature  piazza  of  Vescovana — a  mere 
hamlet  when  compared  with  its  neighbouring  villages. 

Azzo  and  Bertaldo  d'Este — two  generals  serving 
in  the  Venetian  army — had  fallen  into  debt,  and 
were  pleased  to  sell  this  portion  of  their  property 
through  the  hands  of  the  Republic  to  Almoro  III. 
Pisani,  a  wealthy  Pisan  merchant.  The  estate  at 
that  time  reached  from  Este  to  the  Adige,  covering 
an  expanse  of  some  eighteen  thousand  acres.  But 
the  ground  was  absolutely  uncultivated.  The  soil, 
rich  though  it  was,  suffered  from  lack  of  drainage, 
and  was  constantly  under  water.  Little,  save  marsh 
plants  and  rushes,  existed  in  these  swamps.  Wild 
duck  and  snipe  no  doubt  there  were  in  plenty.  They 
supplied  the  tables  of  the  nobles  in  their  Venetian 
palaces,  but  the  nobles  themselves  could  not  inhabit 
such  damp  wildernesses. 

It  is  impossible  for  us  who  travel  through  Lom- 
bardy  nowadays,  and  see  it  in  its  present  finished 
and  excellently  fertile  condition,  to  realise  from  what 
a  chaos  this  cultivation  first  arose.  It  must,  how- 
ever, be  remembered  that,  though  soil  and  climate 
have  undoubtedly  been  favourable,  the  work  of  men 
and  oxen  has  been  colossal  on  this  great  delta  of  the 
Alpine  rivers,  and  that  the  drainage  of  many  thou- 


fi6  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

sands  of  square  acres,  with  a  fall  of  only  some  eight 
to  ten  metres  to  the  sea,  has  been  a  stupendous  feat 
requiring  centuries  of  patient  toil  and  hidden  labour. 

From  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  to  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century  the  Pisanis  have  tended  and  cared 
for  their  grant  of  land.  If  the  dead  indeed  walk, 
Almoro  III.  Pisani,  the  old  Pisan  merchant,  who 
purchased  it  more  than  five  hundred  years  ago,  may 
feel  just  pride  in  prowling  unseen  across  his  fat  and 
flourishing  country.  Fields  upon  fields  of  waving 
wheat  he  there  will  see ;  trim-clipped  acacia  hedges 
lining  the  roads,  and  mulberries  with  vines  upon 
them  to  separate  the  wheat  and  corn.  The  young 
maize  shoots  from  shining  sods,  and  quiet  oxen,  tall 
and  white,  stand  in  their  well-kept  stalls.  No  inch 
is  left  untrodden  or  uncared  for,  and  so  it  is  all  over 
Lombardy.  The  cultivated  fields  stretch  on  for 
miles.  They  lap  the  feet  of  the  Euganeans,  they  kiss 
the  slopes  of  the  Apennines,  and  end  by  the  Adriatic. 

In  writing  about  the  Pisanis  I  must  not  omit  to 
mention  one  of  the  Venetian  Republic's  greatest 
heroes,  namely,  Vettor  Pisani,  the  admiral  who  in 
the  year  1378  saved  Venice  from  the  Genoese  at  a 
minute  when  indeed  she  was  almost  vanquished. 
The  admiral,  it  is  true,  belonged  to  a  different  branch 
of  the  Pisani  family  to  those  of  whom  I  write,  but 
his  name,  so  famous  in  history,  will  inevitably  recur 
to  the  mind  of  the  reader. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  $7 

We  read  later  in  the  Libro  d'Oro  that  two  of  the 
family  obtained  the  title  of  cardinal — Francesco  and 
Alvise,  an  uncle  and  nephew.  The  nephew  spent 
his  days  in  scheming  for  the  advancement  of  his 
uncle  to  the  Holy  See.  But  the  plot  was  discovered 
early,  and  led  to  the  ruin  of  both.  The  fresco 
portrait  of  Cardinal  Francesco,  fresh  and  vivid  in 
colour,  still  looks  down  from  the  walls  of  the  big 
room  at  Vescovana. 

In  1735  Alvise  Pisani  was  created  Doge.  This 
was  in  the  extreme  decadence  of  the  Republic,  at  a 
period  of  which  there  is  little  to  recall.  Luigi's  life 
is  interesting  for  things  outside  Venice  itself.  He 
was  first  sent  as  Venetian  ambassador  to  the  courts 
of  France  and  England.  To  the  latter  country  he 
went  in  the  year  1702  to  offer  the  congratulations  of 
the  Venetian  Republic  to  Queen  Anne  upon  the 
occasion  of  her  accession.  Amongst  the  Pisani 
pictures  at  the  Palazzo  Barbaro  in  Venice  there  is 
a  portrait  of  this  English  queen,  presented  probably 
by  herself  at  the  time.  There  is  also  a  very 
fascinating  picture  of  the  ambassador's  arrival  in 
London  :  a  thoroughly  Venetian  conception  of  the 
Tower  of  London  and  the  Thames. 

It  was  Alvise's  son — Almoro  Luigi  Pisani — who, 
through  his  immense  ambition  and  love  of  luxury, 
acquired  during  his  residence  at  the  French  court, 
practically  ruined   the  Pisani  family.     Luigi,  god- 


58  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

child  of  Louis  XIV.  of  France,  was,  like  his  father, 
chosen  by  the  Venetian  Republic  for  their  ambassador 
to  foreign  courts.  In  the  year  1795  he  was  recalled 
to  Venice  from  London,  and  returning,  full  of  his 
newly-acquired  tastes,  he  determined  to  spend  his 
fortune  upon  some  monumental  show.  He  pur- 
chased land  upon  the  Brenta,  a  little  way  out  of 
Padua,  instead  of  using  his  own  land  at  Vescovana, 
and  there  he  built  his  palace  of  Stra. 

Stra  may  now  be  seen — a  splendid  edifice  in 
splendid  grounds.  Its  trees  are  planted  in  geo- 
metrical designs  :  towers  and  statues,  elaborate  iron 
gates  and  temples  lead  up  to  it.  But  the  house  is 
uninhabited,  abandoned  by  owners  who  could  not 
desire,  even  if  they  possessed  the  wealth,  to  inhabit 
such  a  soulless  monument.  Stra  is  a  mighty  pleasure 
house  fit  for  a  selfish  soul,  a  silly  king  surrounded 
by  a  troop  of  idle  courtiers  to  take  his  summer  ease 
in.  But  put  down  square  on  the  bare  Venetian  plain 
it  becomes  a  mockery.  Little  hills,  deep  woods,  and 
running  rivulets  are  needed  for  palaces  like  these. 
Maize  fields  clash  with  hornbeam  labyrinths,  and  the 
big  unshadowed  sun  is  pitiless  in  bare  Venetia. 

To  cover  the  building  expenses  of  Stra,  Luigi 
called  continually  for  money  from  his  bailiffs  at 
Vescovana.  When  these  supplies  were  exhausted 
the  bailiffs  were  forced  to  borrow  money.  Conse- 
quently when  the  father  of  the  last  owner  succeeded 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  59 

to  the  property  he  found  it  so  heavily  mortgaged 
that  his  whole  life's  energy  was  spent  in  the  attempt 
to  bring  it  back  to  some  state  of  order  and  freedom. 
One  jewel  and  joy  alone  is  left  to  the  Pisanis  from 
the  folly  of  Luigi,  and  that  is  the  portrait  of  himself 
and  his  family  painted  by  Longhi.  This  picture 
hangs  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  present  owner's 
house  at  Palazzo  Barbaro  in  Venice.  Here  we  meet 
a  bright-eyed,  laughing  lady  in  flowered  brocade, 
surrounded  by  a  tumbling  heap  of  very  fat  and 
fascinating  children.  Some  older  men  and  mytho- 
logical figures  stand  behind  her.  A  Pisani  brother 
is  in  the  foreground  wearing  black  satin  and  a  white 
periwig,  and  Luigi  stands  behind  him  pointing  to  a 
distant  landscape,  where  the  buildings  of  Stra.  rise 
over  the  tree-tops.  This  picture  is  so  living,  so 
vivid  in  colour,  that  one  seems  to  know  and  love  the 
people  painted  there  and  to  join  them  in  laughter 
and  in  the  pleasure  of  their  costly  toy. 

Luigi's  grandchildren  and  great-grandchildren  put 
all  their  energies  into  bringing  the  estates  of  Vesco- 
vana  into  order.  They  abandoned  Stra,  they  left 
their  palaces  in  Venice,  and  th%  last  of  the  Pisanis, 
Almoro  III.,  lived  almost  entirely  in  the  country, 
where,  with  the  help  of  his  English  wife,  he  worked 
to  make  Vescovana  the  model  "  Doge's  Farm,"  which 
we  who  go  there  now  regard  with  such  delight,  and 
where  we  spend  such  pleasant  days. 


BOCCA  DELLE   DENONCIE    SEGRETE. 


CHAPTER   II 


THE    MAKING    OF    THE    DOGE  S    FARM 


|"T  is  not  easy  to  describe  the  Doge's  Farm  to 
those  who  have  not  been  in  Italy.  It  would 
not  be  easy  to  describe  to  an  Italian,  who  had  never 
visited  England,  an  English  manor-house  and  its 
surrounding  scenes.  In  many  ways  the  two  resemble 
each  other,  and  work  on  the  same  principles,  yet  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  poles  wider  apart  than 
the  village-green   and   the   southern   piazza.     Both 


DAYS  SPENT  ON  A    DOGE'S  FARM      61 

serve  the  same  purpose.  How  differently  is  life 
conducted  in  each  !  In  England  you  talk  of  the 
church  tower,  in  Italy  of  the  campanile.  The 
English  rector  will  very  likely  know  how  many  owls 
have  built  in  his  tower,  and  it  is  possible  that  the 
young  men  of  his  parish  may  have  accomplished  a 
chime,  which  they  will  ring  on  Sunday  morning, 
when  the  people  of  the  village  and  the  inhabitants 
of  the  "  house  "  go  quietly  to  church.  In  Italy,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  owls  haven't  much  of  a  chance, 
for  the  campanile  is  public  property.  Any  lounger, 
bored  by  the  piazza,  may  rush  upon  the  bell- 
ropes  in  the  campanile  at  any  hour  of  the  day, 
and  pull  them  singly  or  in  numbers,  till  the  bells 
clash  above  him.  On  Sundays  the  girls  will  trip 
through  the  Italian  piazza  in  thin  lace  veils — as 
across  the  English  green  in  sailor  hats. 

Love  and  calm  may  grow  round  the  green,  but 
romance  and  southern  callousness  are  bred  in  the 
piazza. 

The  Doge's  Farm  remains  at  root  absolutely 
Italian,  though  a  tinge  of  England  entered  with  an 
English  bride.  This  is  chiefly  marked  by  the 
manner  in  which  the  villa  has  been  shut  off  from 
the  piazza.  •  In  most  Italian  villages  the  two  are 
more  merged  into  one  another. 

Vescovana  lies  beside  the  canal  of  Santa  Caterina, 
about  twenty  miles  from  Padua.     Its  nearest  railway 


62       DA  YS   SPENT  ON  A    DOGE'S  FARM 

station  is  Stanghella,  but  the  express  trains  from 
Venice  to  Florence  only  stop  at  Rovigo,  which  is 
seven  miles  from  Vescovana  and  the  largest  town  in 
the  district.  Even  as  far  back  as  the  fifteenth 
century  we  find  the  name  of  Vescovana  printed  on 
local  maps.  It  is  a  small  village,  chiefly  composed 
of  low  mud  huts,  which  straggle  singly  down  the 
banks  of  the  canal.  The  piazza  is  deeply  shadowed 
by  acacia-trees,  and  is  a  cool  and  pleasant  place  where 
the  market  is  held  on  Fridays.  Here,  too,  on  big 
feast  days  the  procession  leaves  the  church  and  makes 
the  round  of  the  square.  To  the  left  the  priest's 
house  is  built — a  small  cottage  almost  hidden  by  its 
magnolia-trees  and  creeping  plants.  Next  to  this 
comes  the  campanile — one  of  those  slender  brick 
buildings  peculiar  to  Lombardy,  and  quite  discon- 
nected with  the  body  of  the  church,  as  is  the  fashion 
in  Gromboolian  bell-towers.  The  church  itself  is 
large,  its  facade  painted  in  pure  white.  On  Sundays 
the  entire  population  waits  outside  its  doors  till  a 
Pisani  is  prepared  to  go  to  mass.  The  mass  also 
waits,  for  patriarchal  principles  are  preserved  on  the 
Doge's  Farm. 

The  whole  of  the  third  part  of  the  triangle  is 
filled  by  the  villa,  but  the  house  is  so  low,  and  is 
painted  in  so  dark  a  colour,  that  at  first  you  scarcely 
discover  its  presence  there  as  you  approach  through 
the  sunlight  of  the  road.     Also  it  is  surrounded  by 


•  ~t  s\,- 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  65 

tall  shrubs  and  trees,  and  there  is  a  sombre, 
mysterious  look  about  the  ancient  building  which 
has  given  rise  to  many  local  myths.  The  central 
part  is  bare  of  creepers,  but  the  long  wings  which 
stretch  away  almost  out  of  sight — so  absurdly  long 
do  they  appear  to  be — are  covered  with  a  dense 
growth  of  ivy  and  are  used  above  as  granaries. 
Birds  and  big  tussore  moths,  mice,  snails,  and 
lizards  make  this  creeper  their  abode.  It  is  splendid 
cover  for  the  naturalist.  Over  the  front  door,  the 
parti-coloured  lioness  of  the  Pisanis  ramps  above  the 
date,  M.D.CXIII.,  when  the  house  was  last  renewed. 
From  this  rather  sombre  approach  one  suddenly 
passes  through  the  halls  and  out  to  the  south  side, 
which  is  most  literally  the  sunny  side  of  the  Doge's 
Farm.  Here  the  light  blazes  on  yellow  walls ; 
here  the  bees  have  their  hives,  the  dogs  their 
home,  and  the  hum  of  life  comes  on  the  air  from 
the  stables  and  the  kitchen.  There  is,  in  fact,  an 
accumulation  of  warmth,  and  sound,  and  colour, 
which  people  passing  along  the  outside  road  have 
never  dreamed  of.  At  any  season  of  the  year  you 
will  find  that  southern  garden  full  of  flowers,  for 
she  who  made  it  loves  it  well.  The  garden  is  the 
sole  creation  of  a  modern  English  fancy,  and  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  old  Pisani  nobles.  They 
did  not  use  their  spare  ground  thus,  but  planned 
it  in  a  stifFer  style,  and  for  purposes  of  use,  not 
beauty  (see  p.  69). 

5 


66  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

In  the  year  1850,  Count  Almoro  III.,  the  last 
of  the  Pisanis  of  San  Stefano,  came  into  the  property. 
A  few  years  later  he  married,  and  brought  his  young 
English  bride  to  live  with  him  upon  the  Doge's 
Farm.  Her  first  impressions  of  the  place  were  not 
exactly  pleasant.  The  great  long  villa  stood  bare 
and  flat  upon  the  plain.  No  single  tree  shielded  it 
from  the  baking  suns  of  summer,  no  flower-bed  was 
there  to  strengthen  the  buds  of  spring.  And  worst 
of  all,  the  one  claim  of  the  big  house  to  architectural 
beauty,  its  colonnaded  flight  of  entrance  steps,  had 
been  ruthlessly  torn  down  to  suit  the  fashion  of  the 
day,  and  to  flatter  the  imagined  tastes  of  an  English 
bride.  The  garden  consisted  of  square  plots  of 
earth,  hedged  in  with  box.  Its  principal  features 
were  the  two  huge  threshing-floors  in  front  of  the 
dining-room  windows.  On  these  squares  all  the 
wheat  of  the  entire  property  was  spread,  threshed, 
and  stacked  in  season.  A  single  pear-tree  stood 
alone  to  tell  of  an  avenue  long  ago  died  down,  and 
a  little  rose  bush,  a  maiden  blush,  had  clung  to  its 
life  by  the  threshing-floor.  The  high-road  led 
straight  up  through  the  village  to  the  front  door. 
The  peasants  came  and  went  along  it.  They  not 
unnaturally  lingered  at  times  to  peer  through  the 
windows  and  watch  how  the  great  folk  ate. 

The  family  lived  entirely  in  the  basement  of  the 
house,  and  passing  pairs  of  pigs  would  wander  in  on 


DOGARESSA  MOROSINA   MOROSINI 

[From  a  portrait  by  Titian  in  the  possession  of  Countess  Pisani] 


To  face  pas'  66 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  67 

a  warm  morning  to  wallow  on  the  silk  divan  where 
the  young  bride  sat  at  work.  Their  owners,  follow- 
ing to  fetch  these  vagrant  hogs,  marvelled  greatly  at 
the  new  -padronds  screams  of  horror.  All  the  large 
rooms  on  the  first  floor  were  uninhabited,  and  used 
for  drying  beans  or  storing  lumber.  Strings  were 
stretched  from  end  to  end  of  the  big  drawing-room, 
and  here  the  washing  was  hung  to  dry.  It  is  true 
that  the  room  had  the  reputation  of  being  haunted, 
but  the  beauty  of  its  lines,  the  charm  of  its  airy 
vastness,  do  away  with  the  thought  of  ghosts. 

Throughout  the  country  the  same  condition  of 
things  existed.  Roads  were  scarce,  and  often  so 
rough  and  miry  that  they  could  only  be  crossed  in 
heavy  cars  drawn  by  oxen.  A  drive  from  Vescovana 
to  Este  was  taken  by  the  Pisani  ladies  early  in  this 
century  with  all  the  pomp  of  a  Roman  procession. 
They  mounted  a  springless  van,  and  were  dragged 
through  furrowed  paths  by  teams  of  white  cattle  to 
the  town  at  the  foot  of  the  hills.  To  us  this  pro- 
ceeding may  sound  new,  and  to  our  fancy  sweet, 
but  to  the  ladies  and  the  oxen  the  charm  was  of  a 
most  mixed  character. 

On  the  north  side  of  the  house,  by  the  door, 
a  strange  remnant  of  past  centuries  existed,  namely, 
a  lion's  head  carved  in  stone,  let  into  the  wall. 
Under  it  the  words,  "Bocca  delle  Denoncie  Segrete," 
are  written.     Into  this  mysterious  hole  any  writing 


68  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

against  the  management  of  the  property,  complaints 
against  individuals,  secret,  and  usually  unpleasant, 
communications  were  slipped.  Inside  the  house 
they  were  opened  and  read. 

Indeed,  the  whole  house  retained  a  something  of 
austerity  :  an  utter  lack  of  modern  comfort  and 
refinements.  Its  immense  size,  too,  made  it  the 
more  unmanageable.  The  Contessa  has  told  me 
how  in  the  Austrian's  time  they  thought  nothing  of 
lodging  a  company  of  some  two  hundred  men  and 
horses  in  the  house  itself. 

It  is  natural  that  the  strong  English  instincts  ot 
the  new  Contessa  should  have  made  her  shudder  at 
the  general  sunbaked  and  unsoftened  aspect  of  this 
huge  farmhouse,  or  villa,  which  was  to  be  her 
home.  Yet  she  saw  that  there  was  a  beauty  in  the 
scene,  quite  apart  from  the  bareness  and  breadth  of 
sky,  namely,  a  glorious  fertile  soil.  There  were 
lilies  in  the  ditches,  water-flags  and  rushes,  but  so 
few  flowers  in  the  fields,  and  she  needed  flowers,  as 
English  women  do,  and  shade — above  all  things, 
shade — then  the  roses  would  grow  and  the  birds 
would  come.  Also,  a  beautiful  house  must  hold 
beautiful  things. 

Slowly  but  surely  the  thing  was  begun.  Gradually 
a  new  and  growing  world  of  green  and  coloured 
things  arose  round  the  bare  walls  ;  and  within,  bit 
by  bit,  the  rooms  became  furnished  and  habitable. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  69 

The  washing  was  no  longer  dried  in  the  upper 
drawing-rooms,  and  there  the  portrait  of  the 
Pisani  cardinal  smiled  on  the  fitter  decoration  of 
his  walls.  Ground  on  the  north  side  of  the  house 
was  enclosed,  the  road  turned  a  little  aside  to  run 
away  from  the  front  door.  Pigs  can  no  longer  push 
through  the  iron  gates.  Magnolia-trees  and  bushes 
of  hydrangea  bloom  freely  in  this  quiet  plot  of 
ground.  And,  strange  to  tell,  a  bird  has  built  in  the 
"  Bocca  delle  Denoncie  Segrete  " — a  long-tailed  tit 
has  filled  the  lion's  mouth  with  down.  He  and  his 
small  wife  yearly  bring  their  funny  tumbling  brood 
out  of  this  mysterious  hole,  and  you  hear  them 
twittering  in  the  shade  of  the  large-leafed  creeper 
which  now  covers  the  formerly  dismal  spot. 

The  box  hedges  and  threshing-floor  on  the 
south  side  were  gradually  replaced  by  grass  and 
flower-beds,  and  a  dense  circle  of  trees  planted 
round  the  whole  garden,  which  covers  an  extent  of 
some  fourteen  acres.  The  trees  have  grown  well. 
Tall  white  poplars,  chestnuts,  and  catalpas  rear 
their  heads  above  the  pines  and  lesser  shrubs,  and 
little  paths  and  alleys  wind  among  the  syringa  and 
tamarisk  groves  which  line  the  moat.  The  pear- 
tree  still  stands  as  a  centre  to  the  modern  garden, 
its  skeleton  covered  with  creepers.  And  the  little 
white  rose  runs  riot  over  every  bed  amongst  its 
finer  but  less  lovely  brethren. 


70      DA  YS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 


It  is  needless  to  say  that  many  difficulties 
came  into  the  way  of  the  ambitious  lady  who 
made  this  garden.  The  Lombard  soil,  so  rich 
and  excellent  for  crops  and  corn,  proved  itself 
too  thick  and  heavy  for  the  roots  of  tenderer 
flowers.  Silver  sand — a  remnant  of  granite  boulders 
in  an  Alpine  valley — was  scooped  from  the  bed  of  the 
Adige,  and  light  leaf-mould  brought  down  from  the 
hills.  And  now,  after  almost  forty  years  of  patient 
toil,  hampered  by  the  blazing  heat  of  summer  suns, 
by  the  frosts  and  floods  in  winter,  hail,  blight,  and 
the  inexperience  of  her  gardeners,  the  owner  of 
Vescovana  may  look  forth  with  no  inconsiderable 
pride  upon  the  results  of  her  hard  labour  on  the 
untutored  plains  of  great  Gromboolia. 


GROUND   PLAN   OF  THE   DOGE'S   FARM   AND   GARDEN 
IN   I7O0. 


HI 

p 


GATES  OF  THE  DOGE'S  FARM. 


CHAPTER  III 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS 

THE  visitor  to  Vescovana  must  submit  to  a 
regime.  There  is  no  harm — there  is  often  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  thus  submitting — especially  it 
the  regime  be  arranged  in  a  manner  likely  to  suit  the 
individual,  as  it  is  at  Vescovana. 

Everything  works  apparently  by  clockwork  in  the 
Doge's  Farm ;  that  is  to  say,  upon  first  arrival 
it  seems  to  do  so.  After  a  lengthened  residence 
you  realise  the  fact  that  Gromboolian  strings  are 
very  hard  to  pull,  and  that  it  needs  a  considerable 

intellect  to  pull  them  successfully  or  even  at  all. 

71 


72  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

We  will  say  that  you  get  out  or  your  train  at 
Sant'  Elena  on  an  afternoon  in  June,  and  are  shown 
into  some  comfortable  carriage  which  is  in  waiting 
at  the  gate,  then  are  at  once  driven  off  by  a  coachman 
in  black,  who  gives  you  to  understand  that  he  is  an 
automaton,  and  not  to  be  lightly  addressed.  But 
you  are,  of  course,  engaged  in  thinking  of  a  thou- 
sand details.  "  Where  is  my  luggage  ? "  you  cry 
distractedly,  as  your  ticket  has  been  silently  taken 
from  you  by  an  old  peasant.  A  wave  of  the  whip 
from  the  automaton  shows  you  your  portmanteau 
following  in  a  stone  cart,  which  is  driven  by  the 
peasant,  and  dragged  by  a  lively  mule  with  red 
tassels  to  his  ears.  Much  relieved,  you  sink  again 
into  your  carriage  and  contemplate  the  landscape. 
You  feel  at  first  appalled  by  its  monotony.  The 
white  road,  with  a  ditch  on  either  side,  leads  through 
interminable  fields,  with  now  and  then  a  mud  hut, 
some  oxen,  or  a  stable.  The  oxen  are  beautiful 
beasts,  but  you  know  nothing  of  their  points  ;  the 
stables  appear  to  you  rather  low  and  very  much 
alike.  The  blue  phantoms  of  the  Euganean  Hills, 
rising  to  the  east,  alone  satisfy  your  curiosity.  You 
already  begin  to  wish  that  there  were  any  possi- 
bility of  getting  in  amongst  them.  (On  this  subject 
your  return  journey  will  rouse  very  different  feelings.) 
Thus  for  nearly  an  hour  you  are  driven  along. 
Then  the  monotony  becomes  a  little  more  polished. 


DOGE   MARIN   GRIMANI 

[From  a  portrait  in  the  possession  of Countess  Pisani] 


To /ace  page  72 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  73 

Trees  are  planted  round  the  stables,  and  their  oxen 
look  fatter  and  taller  than  those  around  Sant'  Elena. 
There  are  hedges  and  red  gates  before  the  farms,  and 
the  carts  which  you  encounter  are  painted  blue,  and 
have  a  lion  rampant  and  "  Almoro  III."  printed  on 
their  boards.  You  know  nothing,  perhaps,  of 
Almoro  III.,  still  less  of  lions  rampant ;  but  you 
become  conscious  of  something  individual  in  the  air 
and  in  the  country.  Also  the  whole  populace  begins 
to  bow,  both  women  and  men  uncovering  their  heads 
as  you  pass.  You  imagine  that  they  bow  to  you, 
and  try  to  return  the  numerous  salutations,  but  in 
truth  they  acknowledge  the  automaton,  the  horses, 
and  the  carriage. 

You  are  within  the  property  of  the  Pisanis,  and 
you  have  become  a  part  of  its  system. 

The  road  winds  along  the  top  of  the  canal  past 
the  municipality,  the  inn,  and  the  houses  of  the 
village,  and  below  there  is  a  square  full  of  acacia- 
trees  hiding  a  long,  low  building.  At  this  point 
the  coachman  raises  a  brass  horn  to  his  lips  and 
blows  three  distinct  blasts,  which  proceeding  natu- 
rally astonishes  you.  At  the  same  minute  a  bell 
is  rung  over  the  gates — these  gates  are  pulled  open, 
and  you  are  driven  round  what  Miss  Austen  would 
probably  term  a  "sweep" — i.e.,  a  gravel  road  with 
a  bed  of  roses  in  its  midst.  Two  motionless  men- 
servants  stand  upon  the  steps. 


74  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

Bewildered  by  so  much  unexpected  clockwork  in 
the  middle  of  this  sleepy  plain,  you  get  out.  Need- 
less to  say,  the  mule,  though  lively,  has  not  kept 
pace  with  the  horses  ;  and  you  find  yourself,  as  it 
were,  swept  off  your  feet  without  even  the  pro- 
verbial toothbrush,  in  this  immense  house  where  all 
seems  new.  There  is  almost  a  chill  in  the  big,  cool 
rooms.  All  their  shutters  are  closed  against  the  sun, 
and  their  air  is  weighted  with  the  scent  of  cut 
flowers.  You  are  at  once  set  down  to  tea  and  a 
variety  of  thin  biscuits  peculiar  to  teas  at  Ves- 
covana.  Your  eyes  are  attracted  to  a  thousand 
objects  of  curiosity  and  interest  within  the  immense 
drawing-room.  China  birds  float  from  the  ceiling, 
huge  damask  curtains  fall  from  the  walls,  and  an 
Eastern  sense  of  comfort  and  joy  in  colour  is  spread 
over  the  whole,  together  with  a  French  refinement 
shown  in  the  cascades  of  roses  falling  from  elevated 
glass  bowls.  Through  cracks  in  the  blinds  you  see 
a  garden  full  of  trees  and  flowers,  into  which  it  is 
at  once  your  desire  to  plunge  ;  and,  indeed,  a  sense 
of  having  entered  a  palace  of  art  is  strong  upon  you, 
and  it  is  with  great  unwillingness  that  you  embark 
on  other  topics,  with  a  hostess  whose  conversation  is 
as  excellent  as  is  the  management  of  her  property. 
No  sooner,  however,  is  your  tea  finished  than  the 
carriage  is  announced,  and  it  is  taken  for  granted 
that   you  will  accompany    your    hostess    upon    her 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  75 

afternoon  employments  in  the  country.  The  plan 
sounds  attractive.  You  go.  Your  tastes  have  been 
rightly  divined,  and  whereas  your  hostess  enters  at 
once  her  closed  carriage,  you  are  put  into  an  open 
victoria  and  whirled  off  in  pursuit  of  the  brougham. 

One  visitor  from  across  the  Atlantic  to  Vescovana 
exclaimed  indignantly  at  the  sight  of  the  said  brougham 
and  victoria  :  "  This,"  she  cried,  "  is  not  at  all  what 
I  was  led  to  expect,  but  a  car  drawn  by  milk-white 
oxen — a  countess  crowned  with  poppies  I"  The 
lady  had,  I  believe,  derived  her  interesting  infor- 
mation from  a  literary  compatriot.  Nor,  though 
highly  coloured,  was  it  without  foundation,  as  will 
be  presently  shown  (p.  157). 

You,  however,  get  into  the  victoria  without  such 
feelings  of  disappointment,  and  again  make  the 
turn  of  the  sweep.  A  servant  rushes  out  from 
behind  a  bush  and  closes  the  gates  behind  you,  and 
you  are  then  enveloped  in  the  cloud  of  dust  which 
the  carriage  in  front  stirs  up.  As  you  whirl  along 
the  roads  all  heads  are  uncovered,  and  at  every  red 
gate  a  bowing  form  is  descried,  prepared  to  pull  them 
open.  If  this  form  does  not  appear  the  automaton 
at  once  draws  forth  his  horn  and  blows  a  demanding 
blast.  A  tremendous  amount  of  conversation  follows 
between  the  occupant  of  the  brougham  and  the  form, 
and  usually  some  cowherds  and  a  few  women  and 
children    cluster   round   and   stare.     Your   puzzled 


76  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

brain  rightly  divines  that  the  form  is  a  bailiff,  and 
that  the  words  concern  farm  matters.  But  the  little 
Italian  which  you  command,  and  which  you  prob- 
ably acquired  from  a  study  of  the  classics,  is  here 
worse  than  useless.  It  merely  serves  to  confuse  you 
further  as  it  enables  you  to  understand  the  vehe- 
mence of  the  expressions  chosen,  and  not  the  purely 
Gromboolian  significance  which  they  imply. 

A  desire  seizes  upon  you  to  enter  one  of  those 
farms,  having  now  counted  the  gates  and  conver- 
sation of  four  in  succession,  while  you  sat  outside 
of  them,  interested,  but  chiefly  embarrassed,  by  the 
many  eyes  directed  at  you  and  your  elegant  con- 
veyance. You  pass  through  the  sleepy  village  of 
Stanghella,  where  the  populace  turns  from  regarding 
the  piazza  to  regard  you,  and  then  at  last  one  of  the 
red  gates  is  thrown  open,  and  you  drive  through  a 
hedge  of  mulberry-trees  and  under  the  arcades  of  a 
stable.  A  circle  of  farm  labourers  is  immediately 
formed  round  the  carriages.  The  door  of  the 
brougham  is  opened,  your  hostess  gets  out,  and, 
catching  up  the  long  skirts  of  her  gown,  she  enters 
the  stables.  A  rather  stormy  altercation  follows,  but 
the  sole  cause  for  displeasure  which  you  can  note  is 
the  fact  that  a  calf  has  half  strangled  itself  by  lying 
down  too  far  from  its  halter.  To  your  astonish- 
ment the  Contessa  herself  gets  into  the  stall  and 
disengages  it.     In  the  meantime  the  coachman  has 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  77 

entered  the  stable  bearing  with  him  two  rusty 
biscuit-tins  which  contain  a  red  substance.  Into 
this  go  the  white  hands  of  your  hostess,  and  you 
realise  that  it  is  salt  which  she  is  about  to  give  to 
her  oxen.  These  great  creatures  turn  their  heads  ; 
some  or  them  begin  to  low  when  they  hear  her 
voice.  She  knows  each  one  individually,  and 
addresses  them  in  the  most  endearing  terms.  Over 
each  stall  are  printed  the  titles  of  its  two  occupants, 
together  with  the  dates  of  their  birth  and  the  names 
of  their  mothers. 

You  have  hitherto  kept  at  a  safe  distance ;  you  are 
now  called  upon  to  admire  :  "  Come  speak  to  my 
bull  ;  admire  his  immense  beauty.  Admire  my 
angel  Magnifico  ! "  and  your  hostess  caresses  the 
enormous  creature,  stroking  his  huge  neck  and 
pressing  her  hands  upon  his  lowering  forehead.  It 
is  true  that  he  idly  whisks  his  heavy  tail  into  your 
face,  but  as  you  have  become  part  of  a  system  you 
follow  blindly,  and  are  surprised  to  find  that  a  bull 
is  a  very  soft  and  amiable  creature,  charming  to 
caress.  Indeed,  from  this  moment  you  acquire  a 
love  and  taste  for  these  heroes  and  heroines  of 
Vescovana  which  you  could  never  have  foreseen  as 
possible. 

A  woman  has  arrived  from  a  neighbouring  cottage 
with  a  basin  of  water  and  a  clean  towel.  She  stands 
as  though  just  wound   up  at  the  open  door.     The 


78  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

■padrona  washes  her  hands  in  the  basin  and  passes 
back  into  her  carriage.  The  cortege  moves  off ;  the 
bailiff  and  the  "  guardians,"  who,  by  the  by,  appear 
to  be  quite  unabashed  by  the  reprimands  they  have 
received,  bowing  along  by  the  brougham  windows  to 
the  last  ;  the  gates  are  closed,  and  you  yourself 
being  by  this  time  tuned  to  a  mood  of  absolute 
submission,  begin  to  seek  for  beauty  in  the  ditches, 
and  repose  in  a  stupid  indifference.  After  this  you 
go  into  two  or  three  more  farms,  and  are  surprised 
to  find  precisely  the  same  scenes  re-enacted  in  each. 
At  eight  you  return  to  the  house.  The  horn  is 
blown,  the  bell  rung.  You  pray  for  a  minute's  rest. 
But  no.  A  sweet  air  of  flowers  is  wafted  in  from 
the  garden  which  innumerable  peasant  girls  are 
watering.  Another  bell  rings  :  "  Ah  !  it  has  only 
just  rung — the  dinner  bell,"  says  your  indefatigable 
hostess  ;  "  there  is  just  time  to  'look  at  Crispin  de 
Pass  and  the  Mockery."  You  are  told  to  abandon 
your  ordinary  hat  and  to  place  on  your  head  some 
strange  straw  device  of  which  there  are  piles  in  the 
hall.     Then  out  you  go. 

You  are  walked  slowly  over  gravel  paths  ;  you  are 
pushed  into  an  arbour  and  told  that  its  name  is  the 
"  Blue  Devils,"  in  which  case  you  think  it  a  very 
suitable  resting-place.  But  you  are  hastily  dragged 
out  again  to  admire  the  beauties  of  a  freshly-mapped 
parterre  full  of  terra-cotta  jars  and  scarlet  geraniums. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  79 

This  you  are  informed  is  "  Crispin  de  Pass  "  ;  then 
on  you  tread  to  another  arbour,  which  you  are  told 
is  "  Miss  Somebody's  Bower."  Innumerable  monu- 
ments to  "  E,"  "  B,"  and  "  L  "  confront  you,  and 
finally  a  pyramid  of  stones,  surmounted  by  a  sign- 
post bearing  the  word  "  Mockery,"  further  con- 
founds you  ;  whilst  beyond  this  rise  the  "  Walls  of 
Jericho"  and  the  "Temple  of  Baal."  A  gardener 
follows  in  your  train.  He  is  commanded  to  give  a 
snip  here,  to  tie  a  string  there,  to  pull  up  a  rose-tree, 
and  plant  perhaps  a  daisy  in  exchange.  The  Ave 
Maria  comes  over  the  trees  from  the  church,  and  a 
misty  golden  light  floods  the  whole  land. 

Who  and  what  was  Crispin  de  Pass  ?  Swiss 
pumps,  bare  bowers,  blue  devils,  and  a  mockery — 
what  are  these  things  to  you  ?  You  merely  see 
around  you  a  southern  garden  full  of  roses  which 
fascinate  your  northern  eye.  The  size  and  scent  of 
the  magnolias  charm  you,  and  the  delicious  lavishness 
of  sweet-pea  hedges.  The  sleepy  moat,  overgrown 
with  water-lilies  and  pink  tamarisk,  delights  you,  for 
here  a  gondola  lies  hidden  under  syringa-trees  ;  the 
singing  of  the  birds,  the  groves  of  poplar  and  of  pine, 
and  the  little  arbour  on  a  hill  all  sweetly  scented  with 
honeysuckle,  where  a  red  terra-cotta  Madonna  has 
her  shrine — these  things  entrance  you  more  than  the 
botanical  specimens  which  have  cost  so  much  thought 
and  care. 


8o 


DAYS   SPENT  ON 


Physically  and  mentally  "  fagged "  by  all  the 
novelty,  you  crawl  into  the  house  and  stumble 
into  evening  clothes.     You  find  your  things  spread 

'  > 


SHRINE   OF   THE   RED   MADONNA. 


neatly  out  in  an  ideal  bedroom.  Mirrors  confront 
you  at  every  turn,  magnificent  roses  crowd  your 
dressing-table,  together  with  a  thousand  knick- 
knacks  ;    your  windows  open  on  a  balcony  full  of 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  81 

flowering  oleander,  and  the  nightingales  have 
begun  to  sing  like  mad.  When  dressed  you  go 
into  the  drawing-room,  in  something  of  a  hurry ; 
for  having  been  informed  that  the  dinner  is  at 
eight,  you  are  shocked  to  hear  the  village  clock 
strike  nine. 

As  you  pass  through  the  door  into  the  drawing- 
room,  a  form  rises  from  a  table  in  the  background 
and  confronts  you  in  the  twilight.  It  is  A.  who 
will  lead  you  later  to  the  cities  of  the  hills  ;  and 
read  you  Leopardi,  Virgil,  Dante,  Homer. 

The  Contessa  now  appears  from  some  side  door, 
and  though  the  night  is  hot,  she  wears  a  long 
lamb's  wool  cloak  over  her  evening  gown.  Her 
hair  is  pinned  together,  as  it  seems  to  you,  with 
doges'  caps  made  of  long  pearls  and  diamonds.  But 
instead  of  a  ducal  phrase,  you  are  greeted  by  a 
message  from  the  stable:  "A  calf  has  just  been 
born  at  the  Died,"  she  says,  holding  out  some 
bailiff's  grimy  paper.  "  You  must  give  it  your 
name.  Is  it  not  a  true  honour  to  have  one  of  my 
beautiful  bovi  called  after  you  ? " 

Being  now  part  of  the  "  system,"  you  realise  what 
you  might  not  have  done  before,  that  in  giving 
your  name  to  a  cow  you  are  receiving,  and  by  no 
means  conferring,  a  favour.  Your  name,  and  those 
of  your  more  celebrated  ancestors,  are  now  raked 
over  the  coals   of   the    Contessa's  criticism.       The 

6 


82  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

most  beautiful  is  selected,  or  that  which  has  won 
most  honour,  and  it  is  dictated  to  A.,  who,  at 
a  later  hour,  will  print  it  on  one  of  those  boards 
which  you  noticed  in  the  stables.  You  are  now  at 
last  marshalled  off  to  dinner.  You  enter  an  immense 
square  dining-room,  which  is  lighted  solely  by 
clusters  of  small  fairy  lights  scattered  through  the 
pink  heaps  of  roses  on  the  tablecloth,  or  amongst 
the  syringa  branches  falling  from  baskets  on  the  wall. 
These  walls  are  covered  with  frescoes  representing 
trees  and  birds,  so  faintly  and  delicately  done  you 
almost  feel  yourself  once  more  out  in  the  open 
air. 

The  meal,  though  almost  endless,  is  accompanied 
by  a  conversation  so  brilliant  and  amusing  that  you 
are  spared  the  dismal  task  or  noting  that  with  such 
a  dish  at  the  beginning  there  is  sure  to  be  an 
unwelcome  number  to  follow.  It  were  difficult  to 
describe  the  conversation  of  the  Doge's  Farm.  It 
is  almost  universal — it  flies  from  the  naming  of  a 
calf,  to  the  loves  of  Cleopatra  ;  the  ploughing  of  a 
field,  to  the  "Inferno  "  of  Dante  ;  the  broidering  of 
a  napkin,  to  the  policy  of  Gladstone  or  the  sonnets  of 
Michelangelo.  A.  gives  his  opinion  on  most  subjects, 
and  you  cannot  help  remarking  that  this  opinion  is 
unfailingly  the  exact  opposite  of  that  expressed  by 
every  one  else. 

The  servants  come  and  go  noiselessly  across  the 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  83 

heavy  carpets.  They  bring  you  plates  or  strange 
designs ;  they  take  them  and  replace  them  with 
others.  Here  you  partake  of  a  jellied  swan,  there 
of  an  eastern  gourd. 

But  if  the  servants  are  silent,  the  same  cannot  be 
said  of  the  cats,  which  keep  a  screaming  guard 
around  the  table.  They  are  all  black,  all  thin,  and 
tall,  and  their  eyes  have  a  particularly  yellow  look 
in  that  dimly-lighted  room.  If  one  is  left  outside 
the  window,  the  panes  are  vehemently  rattled  by 
her  gentle  paws,  and  these  demands  to  enter  are 
immediately  complied  with  by  a  silent  footman. 
They  jump  on  the  sideboard,  and  there  devour 
any  morsel  left  upon  the  plates  ;  they  crunch  the 
chicken  bones  ;  they  pounce  upon  the  half-gnawed 
stalks  of  your  asparagus.  Their  mistress  knows 
them  each  by  name  :  "  The  King  of  the  Moors," 
"  Nerina,"  "  Straniera,"  and  a  host  of  others,  whose 
titles  and  pedigree  you  may  perhaps  in  time  acquire 
also.  It  is  further  the  pleasure  of  these  fascinating 
beasts — and  none  of  their  pleasures  are  for  an 
instant  checked,  as  the  Empress  Frederick  found 
when  Nerina  jumped  upon  her  knee  and  seized  the 
salmon  from  her  plate  at  dinner — it  is  their  pleasure 
then  to  call  your  attention  to  their  appetite  by 
standing  on  their  hind  legs  and  scratching  their 
peculiarly  pointed  claws  up  and  down  your  knees. 
Woe  to  the  light  lace  dress,  the  cleanly  muslin,  or 


84  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

the  shining  cloth.  A  dog  who  answers  to  different 
names  at  different  seasons  of  the  year,  but  which  at 
your  season  is  called  "  Tirindoo,"  wages  a  political 
war  with  the  cats.  Aware  that  numbers  are  against 
her,  it  is  Tirindoo's  policy  to  work  upon  one's 
pity,  and  to  raise  a  fuller  voice,  and  one  of  agony 
as  though  attacked,  above  those  screaming  ones  of 
her  enemies.  Thus,  to  a  discussion  on  the  Sonnets 
of  Michelangelo  or  the  "  Debacle "  of  Zola,  is 
added  a  chorus  of  yelps  and  yawls  peculiar  to  the 
table  of  Vescovana  ;  whilst  in  the  further  distance 
of  a  hidden  pantry  a  crowd  of  doves  send  forth 
a  gentle  but  persistent  cooing.  And  from  the 
garden,  owls  and  nightingales  join  in  the  praise  of 
night. 

You  wash  your  fingers  with  warm  water  and  a 
lemon,  then  ladies  and  gentlemen  return  arm-in-arm 
up  the  steep  stairs  to  the  drawing-room.  Here  the 
windows  are  tightly  closed,  though  the  night  is 
extremely  hot.  One  shutter  stands  half  ajar,  and 
lets  through  the  heavy  scent  of  vine  flowers  on 
the  pergola  which  well-nigh  sickens  you  by  its 
sweetness.  Then  you  remember  that  fever  is  bred 
in  that  air  as  surely  as  the  flower  of  the  vines.  The 
vast  hall,  stuffed  with  objects,  which  it  is  your 
desire  to  contemplate,  is  so  dimly  lighted  by  shaded 
lamps  that  you  submit  to  an  armchair  and  a  state 
of  semi-lethargy,  through  which    you  begin  to  see 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  85 

nothing    but    doges'    caps    embroidered    on    every 
object  in  a  series  of  golden  threads. 

A.  retires  to  his  table  in  the  background,  where  he 
spends  his  time  between  a  breviary  and  the  inscription 
of  your  name  upon  a  board  ;  the  finishing  of  accounts, 
and  some  words  on  Dante.  He  then,  as  it  seems, 
falls  asleep. 

You  are  sorry  when  bedtime  comes,  as  the  con- 
versation has  been  strangely  new  and  pleasing.  You 
find  in  your  room  an  elaborate  apparatus  for  making 
your  own  lemonade,  and  several  pastilles  placed  on 
a  piece  of  brick  to  burn  against  mosquitoes.  Your 
shutters  are  heavily  barred,  but  you  have  yet  the 
English  energy  to  wrench  them  open  and  snuff  up 
that  warm  delicious  air  of  an  Italian  night.  Then 
you  determine  to  close  the  windows,  but  at  least  to 
have  the  moonlight  enter  your  room  if  not  the  air. 
You  now  realise  that  you  are  honestly  tired,  and 
pray  devoutly  for  a  well-earned  sleep,  into  which 
you  immediately  fall. 

But  what  is  this  noise — this  hurrying  to  and  rro, 
these  screeching  sounds,  this  glaring  light,  this 
deadly  scent  ? — to  all  which  things  you  suddenly 
awaken  at  a  later  hour.  Up  and  down  go  a 
hundred  scurrying  feet  above  your  head,  round 
and  round  some  heavy  loads  are  thrown  and 
dragged,  while  your  head  is  burdened  with  the 
unbearable    combination    of  lavender   and  pastilles. 


86  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

You  rush  to  the  window  to  bar  at  least  the  shutters 
against  a  moon  which  in  future  you  will  leave  to 
lovers  to  admire,  and  against  the  songs  of  nightin- 
gales which  poets  may  praise  in  songs  you'll  never 
read.  You  tear  open  your  door  to  admit  some 
shadow  of  a  draught  from  the  ghostliest  of  passages, 
and  burying  your  head  once  more  in  the  embroidered 
sheets,  you  attempt  to  forget  those  indescribable 
noises  which  ramp  about  the  upper  stories  of  a 
doge's  farm. 

Some  one  comes  to  open  your  shutters.  Another 
servant  follows  a  little  later  with  your  breakfast. 
You  feel  that  all  the  clocks  are  well  wound  up, 
and  that  you  yourself  must  begin  to  tick  con- 
tentedly. A  delicious  air,  a  bath  of  sunlight  full 
of  the  songs  of  morning  birds,  and  the  scent  of 
flowers,  streams  through  your  window.  A  silver 
tray,  a  coffee-pot,  a  cup,  a  jar  of  milk,  some 
biscuits,  and  a  piece  of  toast — these  things  compose 
your  morning  meal,  with  a  due  seasoning  of  doges' 
caps.  You  take  it  when  and  where  you  will — in 
your  room,  or  out  on  your  marble  balcony  amongst 
the  oleanders. 

The  quiet  voices  of  other  guests  are  speaking 
under  the  pergola.  "Did  you  hear  the  rats?" 
says  one.  "It  is  rather  a  bore  having  the  granaries 
iust  over  the  bedrooms."  "And  the  nightingales," 
answers   another,    who    is    a    very    cheerful   guest ; 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  87 

"what  a  noise  they  do  kick  up  in  this  place! 
But  one  soon  gets  accustomed  to  them,  and  to  the 
rats  too,  for  that  matter." 

The  voices  disappear  under  the  arcades,  where 
in  a  short  time  you  join  them,  to  visit  those  far- 
famed  Pisani  granaries  which  produced  the  cause 
of  your  night  terrors. 

You  now  receive  a  message  from  the  Contessa 
that  a  servant  will  show  you  over  the  granaries  or 
any  part  of  the  house  you  may  wish  to  see.  You 
are  accordingly  marshalled  through  every  corner 
and  cranny  by  a  domestic,  who  bears  a  per- 
fect burden  of  keys,  and  solemnly  unlocks  the 
doors.  These  keys  have  large  wooden  labels 
which  flop  and  clank.  The  cheerful  guest  who 
accompanies  you  tells  you  that  the  actual  length 
of  the  house  of  Vescovana  exceeds  that  of  the 
piazza  of  San  Marco  at  Venice.  You  are  first 
shown  through  all  the  linen  cupboards,  and  if  you 
have  an  economical  mind  it  will  surprise  you  to 
hear  that  your  sheets  and  towels  are  washed  at 
Mestre  and  ironed  in  Milan,  and  that  the  doges' 
caps  are  embroidered  in  the  convents  of  France. 
You  are  then  taken  up  narrow  staircases  and  into 
vast  tracts  of  granary.  The  countless  windows  are 
opened  by  the  domestic,  letting  in  a  warm  light 
through  curtains  of  wistaria  and  of  ivy.  As  you 
probably  know  nothing  of  the  merits  of  beans  and 


88  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

maize,  and  care  still  less,  you  retain  of  these 
granaries  but  a  very  dim  impression,  only,  maybe,  a 
recollection  of  hundreds  of  square  feet  of  grain 
spread  on  their  floors ;  but  this  lesson  in  their 
geography  will  enable  you  to  follow  out  more 
precisely  the  nightly  orgies  above  your  bedroom. 

From  the  granaries  you  descend  to  the  barchesse : 
these  are  immense  arcades  where  all  the  farm 
machines,  sacks,  seats,  &c,  are  housed  and  guarded 
by  a  herd  of  Maremma  sheep-dogs.  Here,  too,  are 
innumerable  beehives  looking  out  upon  parterres  of 
lavender.  The  melancholy  domestic  will  tell  you 
that  his  mistress  rarely  eats  the  honey  of  her  bees, 
though  she  spares  no  money  in  maintaining  them. 
She  likes  to  think  that  her  darlings  do  not 
starve. 

You  now  proceed  to  the  kitchens.  There  a 
charming  young  chef  and  two  most  lovely  kitchen- 
maids  do  the  honours.  Then  into  the  stables,  and 
here  the  Oracle  (such  is  the  nickname  of  the  coach- 
man) will  gladly  hector  over  you  as  long  as  you 
care  to  stay.  You  are  surprised  to  see  two  carriages 
being  got  ready  at  this  early  hour  of  the  day. 
Vines  shadow  all  the  stable  walls,  and  swallows  pass 
in  and  out  of  the  blue  curtains  across  the  door. 
You  pass  on  into  the  kitchen-garden — honeysuckle 
and  tea-roses  climb  and  battle  about  its  walls. 
Suddenly  you  are  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  bell. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  89 

The  cheerful  guest  remembers  that  you  are  to  lunch 
at  eleven.  Off  you  dash  over  the  length  of  the 
Piazza  di  San  Marco,  and  finding  your  breakfast 
things  in  your  room,  realise  how  unprepared  you  are 
for  lunch.  It  is  scarcely  eleven.  You  go  downstairs 
and  wait  beneath  the  pergola,  as  you  are  told  that 
the  Contessa  is  still  in  the  garden.  There  are  few 
places  quite  as  hot,  or  as  fascinating,  as  this  pergola 
on  a  summer's  day.  The  Contessa  now  emerges 
from  "Crispin  de  Pass,"  and  you  all  go  in  to  lunch. 
Strange  brown  saucepans  with  eggs  are  presented  to 
you,  potatoes,  and  Turkish  rice.  A  crunching  on 
the  gravel  announces  the  carriage.  "  You  are  ready, 
of  course,"  says  the  Contessa.  You  realise  that  an 
early  meal  means  an  early  start.  You  rush  upstairs 
and  seize  your  hat  and  sketch-book. 

"Where  are  we  going  to  be  sent  to?"  says  the 
cheerful  guest,  standing  in  the  drawing-room. 

"To  Praglia.     You  ought  to  see  Praglia." 

"What  is  Praglia?"  you  ask  mechanically. 

"A  convent — a  beautiful  place.  It  is  only  twenty 
miles  from  here.  You  will  be  back  in  good  time  for 
dinner.  I  expect  you  at  seven.  Go — go — have 
pleasure." 

Your  hostess  lies  down  upon  a  cool  divan  and  her 
guests  pass  out  into  the  carriage  and  the  scorching 
midday  heat. 

A.  is  already  established  as  guide  in  the  carriage, 


oo  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

silent  and  a  bit  alarming,  but  inwardly  rejoicing. 
The  gates  are  opened  by  the  bush-menial,  who 
afterwards  shuts  them.  The  dust  flies  up,  and  off 
you  go  upon  one  of  those  interminable  drives  which 
are  at  once  the  hope  and  the  despair  of  visitors  to 
Vescovana. 

You  pass  through  a  country  which  has  not  yet 
revealed  its  charm  to  you.  Its  monotony  alone 
is  apparent  to  your  eyes.  The  heat  is  intense. 
A.  puts  a  large  blue  cotton  handkerchief  over  his 
wideawake  and  falls  asleep,  or  feigns  to  do  so,  in 
his  corner.  He  wakes  occasionally  to  abuse  the 
coachman,  to  frown  at  a  parishioner,  to  point  out  a 
herd  of  geese,  which  it  is  his  joke  to  call  "  roba 
Inglese."  He  also  insists  upon  having  the  carriage 
closed  when  you  approach  a  town.  At  last  you  get 
into  the  Euganean  Hills,  a  delicious  region  full  of 
poems  and  romance — far  sweeter  and  more  lovely 
than  anything  you  could  have  hoped  to  see.  Is  it 
the  monotony  of  the  plain  which  has  endeared  them 
to  you  suddenly,  and  made  their  watercourses,  their 
lanes,  their  meadows,  and  their  bushy  banks  so 
soothing  and  so  grateful  to  your  eyes  ?  Certain  it 
is  you  will  not  be  allowed  to  catch  anything  but 
fleeting  visions  of  their  beauties.  The  horses,  which 
are  wound  up  even  more  mechanically  than  other 
things  within  the  Doge's  Farm,  jog  on  at  a  hopeless 
trot.     Sometimes  they  stop  mechanically  to  breathe. 


Photo  by  Professor  F.  Trombi. 
A   GARDEN   WALL  AT   ESTE   IN   THE   EUGAXEAX    HILLS 


To  face  page  90 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  91 

Clumps  of  cypress-trees,  towering  from  grass-grown 
paths  above  some  ruined  convent,  excite  your  imagi- 
nation. A  villa,  a  little  lake,  a  bosco  ;  a  lizard  on  a 
mossy  stone,  a  grove  of  flowering  acacia,  a  sleepy 
shrine — things  you  desire  to  touch,  to  feel,  to 
see — all  are  passed  by,  and  towards  3  p.m.  you 
come  to  Praglia.  The  charms  of  that  great  unin- 
habited building,  its  glory  and  its  desolation,  seize 
hold  of  you.  Gladly  would  you  linger  in  its  cloisters, 
to  pluck  the  pink  hybiscus,  to  stretch  for  maidenhair 
down  mouldering  marble  wells  where  fig-trees  grow 
between  the  stones.  And  you  could  sit  for  hours  on 
the  window-ledges  of  those  quiet  cells,  looking  across 
the  vineyards  to  the  plain,  feeling  the  sea  beyond, 
and  watching  the  progress  of  the  summer  clouds 
across  the  sky. 

But  you  must  go.  You  may  not  even  linger 
before  the  radiant  countenance  of  Montagna's 
Madonna  and  St.  John,  or  trace  the  patterns  on 
the  terra-cotta  friezes.  Back,  back  from  all  this 
quiet  splendour  of  old  monks  within  enchanted  halls ; 
you,  as  they  did,  must  forsake  it,  and  turn  back 
across  the  baking  plain. 

"The  Contessa,"  says  A.,  "dines  at  seven." 

Towards  sunset  sweet  scents  arise  from  the  fields, 
and  lovely  golden  lights  play  over  and  through  the 
entire  land.  "Fever,"  murmurs  A.  several  times 
in  succession.     You  cannot  ignore  his  hints,  though 


92      DA  YS   SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 


you  disbelieve  in  their  prophetic  insight.  Once 
more  you  submit.  The  carriage  is  shut,  the  window 
closed.  You  sink  into  a  lethargy  from  which  not 
even  a  June  sunset  can  arouse  you;  and  at  about 
eight  a  bell  is  rung,  and  you  realise  that  the  forty 
miles  have  been  completed.  The  Contessa  comes 
down  to  meet  you  beautifully  attired. 

"Make  haste,  make  haste!"  she  cries.  "Dinner 
is  ready." 

You  dust,  you  dress,  you  descend.  There  are  the 
roses,  there  the  fairy-lights  ;  and  thus  your  second 
day  is  finished  upon  the  Doge's  Farm. 

Rats  may  racket  above  your  head,  and  nightingales 
may  make  night  hideous  out  in  the  garden.  You 
hear  them  not.  You  sleep  the  sleep  of  absolute 
lassitude  and  submission. 


CHURCH  AND  HOUSE  OF  VESCOVANA,   SEEN   FROM  THE  CANAL. 


< 

< 


MULBERRY. 


CHAPTER    IV 


SECOND     THOUGHTS 


THE  first  impressions  modify.  They  assume 
character  and  individual  interests  within  a 
very  few  days.  Farms,  roads,  and  fields  gain  new 
and  living  beauties.  The  house  becomes  a  com- 
fortable home  wherein  to  read  and  write  at  ease 
during  the  morning  hours.  The  farms,  their 
bailiffs,  and  their  oxen  all  assume  real  and  living 
characters.  The  automaton  turns  out  to  be  an 
oracle  who  almost  rules  the  ruler.     The  brougham 


93 


94  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

is  lightly  termed  the  Calais-Douvre,  owing  to  its 
swinging  and  superior  movement  over  the  channels 
of  Gromboolia.  The  horn  and  bell  are  found 
necessities  with  servants  who  incline  to  morning  as 
well  as  afternoon  siestas.  The  Mockery  contains 
plenty  of  reality  :  small  green  frogs,  unchecked 
weeds,  and  rhubarb,  as  well  as  rare  and  tenderly 
nurtured  plants.  The  impassioned  voices  of  mistress 
and  of  men  are  often  raised  about  the  mending-  of 
a  cart-wheel,  the  cutting  of  a  ditch.  The  groans 
of  A.  have  no  connection  with  heretical  beliefs  of 
guests.  They  rise  more  likely  from  a  toothache, 
or  the  characteristics  of  some  mediaeval  saint.  And 
the  long  drives  into  the  hills,  which  wearied  you 
at  the  time,  will  assume  in  memory  the  charm  ot 
dreams. 

Indeed,  these  drives  form  by  themselves  an  immense 
attraction  to  Vescovana.  It  is  true  that  the  Doge's 
Farm  is  built  just  a  few  miles  too  far  away  from  the 
feet  of  the  Euganeans  ;  but  when  this  distance  has 
been  covered,"  what  joy  awaits  the  eager  tourist ! 
He  will  find  there  a  whole  set  of  little  cities.  Each 
has  a  tempestuous  past  written  in  its  archives,  and  a 
small  piazza,  arcaded  streets,  a  church,  a  ruined 
castle.  There  is  Monselice,  with  its  seven  holy 
chapels,  climbing  between  cypress-trees  up  the  steep 
hillside.  And  here  is  Este,  with  its  villa  which 
Byron  hired  and  lent  to  Shelley ;    the  remains  of 


o< 

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(A 

O 

E 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  95 

its  immense  castle,  now  used  for  the  cultivation 
of  vines  and  the  weekly  cattle-market  ;  and  the 
museum  full  of  a  strange  nation's  tombs.  Bat- 
taglia  next,  with  its  famous  baths,  and  the  villa 
of  Cattaia,  dear  to  the  lover  of  armour.  Then 
Praglia,  Teolo,  Val  San  Zibio,  and  last,  but  not 
least,  Arqua. 

Petrarch  lived  his  last  years  and  was  buried  in 
Arqua.  But  even  if  this  had  not  been  a  fact,  one 
still  must  have  felt  the  intense  charm  of  this  small 
sleepy  hill-town.  I  saw  it  last  one  day  in  June,  with 
an  impassioned  Southerner,  who  regarded  the  expe- 
dition as  almost  a  sacred  pilgrimage.  Pomegranate 
hedges  mixed  with  privet  came  bursting  over  the 
walls,  and  above  were  "  banks  whereon  the  wild 
thyme  grows."  We  climbed  up  the  steep  path 
leading  to  the  poet's  house,  and  left  the  village 
below  us — a  very  jewel  of  a  place — with  brown  tiles 
on  its  roofs,  and  all  its  shutters  closed  against  the 
first  warm  kiss  of  June.  The  joujoub-tree  grows  in 
great  abundance  there  at  Arqua  :  its  leaf  is  of  a 
peculiarly  fresh  and  vivid  green,  and  when  it  casts 
its  boughs  across  a  whitewashed  wall,  one's  eyes  are 
almost  dazzled  by  the  shining  vivid  texture.  The 
day  was  very  hot,  and  the  mists  upon  the  plain 
obscured  the  vast  view  over  Lombardy  which  I  had 
known  here  in  autumn.  Fields  and  trees  melted 
into  the  heated  air  like  a  blue  sea,  from  which  church 


96  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

towers  and  houses  emerged  as  sails  upon  its  bosom. 
Up  and  down  that  steep  and  pebbly  road  the  women 
went  with  pails.  There  seems  to  be  more  water  at 
Arqua  than  in  all  the  district  of  the  Euganean 
Hills. 

At  last  we  reached  the  house  of  Petrarch.  It 
stands  high  on  the  hill — a  small  brown  house  with 
a  loggia  and  a  garden,  big  iron  balconies,  and  rooms 
all  open  to  the  air — a  fit  abode  for  any  poet,  and  for 
all  sweet  souls  to  sing  from.  What  if  it  were  not 
his  house,  or  if,  as  the  custode,  with  a  smiling 
cynicism,  said  to  me  in  answer  to  my  meaningless 
inquiry  concerning  the  abode  of  Laura,  '*  Laura  non 
fu  mai "  ?  This  house  remains  the  heart's  ideal  of  a 
poet's  home.  We  climbed  the  loggia  stairs  and 
entered  the  cool  rooms.  From  the  north  and  from 
the  south  the  breezes  freely  passed  and  stayed  to 
play  across  the  poet's  table,  and  linger  round  the 
walls  where  Petrarch  wanders  still,  in  fresco,  through 
golden  paths  and  sunny  meadows,  there  to  meet  with 
Laura. 

The  tomb  stands  on  the  piazza  before  the  church. 
It  is  a  solid  block  of  crimson  Verona  marble  upheld 
by  four  pillars,  simply  cut,  and  on  the  top  is  the 
head  of  the  poet  cast  in  bronze  and  green  with 
winter  rains.  This  tomb  has  the  charm  of  great 
strength  and  simplicity.  Though  it  has  stood  there 
in  the  open  air  for  five  hundred  years  and  more,  it 


A  DOGE'S  FARM  07 

is  not  scarred,  and  there  seems  no  occasion  to  enclose 
it  with  the  iron  paling  which  somewhat  mars  its 
outline. 

Some  years  ago  Petrarch's  tomb  was  opened  at 
Arqua,  and  it  was  found  that  bees  had  made  their 
honeycomb  upon  the  poet's  heart.  This  fact  was 
related  to  Countess  Pisani  by  an  eye-witness,  so 
we  may  trust  its  veracity,  strangely  poetical  and 
unreal  as  it  may  seem  to  us. 

I  have  described  the  interest  of  Arqua  at  length, 
as,  if  time  be  limited,  it  is  the  place  most  worthy  of 
a  visit  in  the  Euganean  Hills.  Still  all  these  places 
have  a  personal  charm,  which  is  intensified  after  a 
residence  in,  or  a  long  drive  across  the  plain.  And 
dearer  to  me  than  Arqua  are  the  gardens  of  Val  San 
Zibio.  This  is  a  fairy  plot  of  ground.  A  half-circle 
of  hills  surrounds  it.  Once  the  architect  of  the 
Versailles  gardens  came  to  the  Euganeans.  He  left 
behind  him  a  miniature  Versailles — a  little  city  of 
hornbeam  and  of  box  cut  into  labyrinths  and  streets, 
with  chestnut-trees  for  palaces,  and  a  wonderful 
display  of  marble  tanks  and  fountains. 

To  describe  one  Lombard  road  were  to  describe 
all.  But  as  one  nears  the  feet  of  the  hills,  a  more 
varied  vegetation,  bred  on  mountain  soil,  creeps 
down  into  the  cultivated  fields,  and  adds  colour 
or  height  to  their  familiar  plants.  The  natural 
impulse  of  these  roads  is  to  run  straight.     But  the 

7 


98      DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

small  properties  of  our  times  enforce  small  angles 
and  the  consequent  break  of  Romanesque  mono- 
tony.    The  roads  are  always  admirably  kept,  and 
as  they  have  to  be  made  with  great  difficulty,  owing 
to  the  want  of  stone  in  the  neighbourhood,  they  are 
very  solid  and  firm  when  once  completed.      They 
are  white  and  smooth,  and  your  carriage  rolls  along 
them  as  though  it  were  upon  a  city  street  laid  down 
with  wood.     On  either  side  there  is  usually  a  deep 
ditch,  which  in  spring  and  autumn  is  filled  with 
water,  and  is  always  lined  with  grass  and  rushes. 
Here,  too,  you  will  find  loosestrife,  forget-me-not, 
flags,  and  every  sort  of  water-weed  ;    and  over  the 
more  shaded  ditches  the  duck-weed  grows  so  thick 
you  almost  think  it  land,  till  a  flock  of  new-fledged 
ducks  pushes  in  amongst  it,  and  ruffles  the  surface 
by   a   sudden   charge   of  tiny   bills.      They   are   a 
pleasing  break  in  the  monotony  of  the  road-land- 
scape,   these    occasional    families    of    little    birds ! 
They  like  to  lie  along  the  grassy   paths — a  flattened 
line  of  golden  fluff,  which  may  remain  quiet  as  you 
pass,   or  else  get  up  with  one  consent,  and  speed 
away   before   the   carriage    wheels.       Turkeys    and 
guinea-fowl  are  produced  in  thousands  for  exporta- 
tion all  over  this  country. 

But  I  would  have  no  one  believe  that  drives  into 
the  hills  offer  the  sole  entertainment  to  visitors  at 
the  Doge's  Farm.     There  are  interests  at  its  own 


BACK  OF  THE  CHDRCH  AT  VESCOVANA. 


DA  YS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM    101 

doors  just  as  great  as  these,  if  looked  at  in  the 
proper  light.  Few  things  could  be  discovered  in  any 
country  more  impressive  than  the  Lombard  harvest, 
and  in  no  corner  of  that  country  can  it  be  seen 
to  better  advantage  than  in  Gromboolia — properly 
the  Bassa  Padovana — where  the  soil  is  particularly 
rich,  and  has  been  cultivated  for  centuries.  This 
sight  it  was  my  privilege  to  see.  Indeed,  I  stayed  at 
the  Doge's  Farm  for  over  eight  weeks  one  summer, 
and  rarely  during  that  time  did  I  ever  drive  outside 
the  property  of  the  Pisanis — an  area  of  some  three 
thousand  acres.  During  that  time  the  "  system " 
which  I  have  described  above  was  broken  through. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  when  the  house 
was  not  yet  quite  shut  up,  I  left  the  growing  ghost 
of  fever  to  the  mind  of  A.  There  are  window- 
ledges  on  the  north  side  of  the  hall  in  the  Doge's 
Farm.  These  ledges  are  more  than  three  feet 
broad,  and  the  heat  of  the  sunset  lingers  in  their 
stones  far  into  the  night.  I  could  creep  through 
the  sash  windows,  for  the  air  was  not  absolutely 
forbidden  at  that  hour,  and  sit  outside,  looking  into 
the  west  and  hearing  the  others  talk  within.  Their 
familiar  voices  only  increased  the  sense  of  mystery 
in  all  the  country  round.  The  stars  came  out, 
one  by  one,  in  the  sky  over  the  acacia-trees.  They 
seemed  strangely  red,  and  by  their  light  the  clematis, 
which  grew  along  the  wall,  deepened  to  dull  purple. 


102  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

A  sort  of  throb  pulsed  through  the  air,  in  the  owl- 
light  ;  a  laugh  of  girls  on  a  far-away  road,  the  sound 
of  a  young  man's  singing,  of  birds  not  gone  to 
sleep,  and  the  rumble  of  trains  miles  off  upon  the 
plain. 

The  day  lingered  long  in  Lombardy  at  that 
season,  fluttering  and  shaking  through  the  sky  ;  and 
this  hour,  so  remarkable  in  the  South,  has  for  me 
a  peculiar  charm.  The  night  may  be  more  glorious 
— calmer  and  completer  ;  but  twilight  is  the  hot-bed 
for  romance  and  fiction,  a  thing  which  "  fascinates 
and  is  intolerable  " — a  time  when  restless  souls,  of 
youth,  at  least,  go  mad. 

Sometimes  I  went  into  the  garden  then.  The 
dews  had  not  yet  fallen,  and  the  big  moths  hovered, 
warm  and  fluffy,  among  the  flowers  which  open  only 
to  the  night.  The  geraniums  burnt  a  sullen  red, 
the  roses  were  obscured,  and  the  magnolia  buds  lay 
sleeping  white  against  their  leaves.  Most  flowers 
in  the  garden  swooned.  But  the  ox-eye  daisies  shone 
like  stars  among  the  grass — thousands  and  thousands 
of  them,  vying  for  brilliancy  with  the  fire-flies. 
And  that  was  the  hour  for  the  evening  primrose.  It 
blossomed  suddenly,  like  shaded  lamps,  all  through 
the  borders  and  the  dusky  alleys  of  the  garden.  I 
picked  great  bunches  of  this  flower — their  petals 
were  so  cool  and  fresh — their  pollen  scent  divine. 
There  was  a  peculiar  fascination  in  gathering  these, 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  103 

and  the  daisies  together — the  two  most  luminous 
flowers  of  the  garden,  which  in  the  day  would  be 
passed  by.  For  I  confess  that  it  was  ghostly  in 
the  garden  at  twilight,  and  that  my  footsteps  were 
hurried.  They  seemed  dogged  by  invisible  beings 
whom  I  could  not  discern — whom  I  hastened  to  flee 
from.  I  grabbed  the  flowers,  and  I  regained  the  house 
with  no  inconsiderable  feeling  of  relief!  But  the 
dews  of  night  deepened  my  delight  in  the  verses  of 
Leopardi  or  of  Dante,  which  I  read  with  A. 

My  morning  walks  were  an  unmitigated  pleasure. 
I  rose  at  early  hours,  and  went  into  the  garden 
when  it  was  yet  heavy  with  dew.  How  glorious 
were  the  yellow  roses  after  sleep  !  The  magnolia 
flowers  were  limp  with  slumber,  their  petals  fell 
apart,  letting  the  heavy  fragrance  go  up  to  meet  the 
sun,  and  the  spirea  looked  whiter  in  the  grass.  The 
feathered  sprays  of  tamarisk-trees  shivered  and  sprang 
back  as  the  dewdrops  which  had  held  them  fell 
away  and  dissolved  with  the  waters  of  the  moat. 
The  tree-frogs  basked  on  the  lily-leaves.  The 
nightingales  were  silent.  I  saw  the  little  brown 
bird,  whose  magnificent  songs  had  thrilled  the  night, 
running  along  like  other  birds  to  breakfast  under 
the  violet  leaves,  or  find  a  beetle  in  syringa  hedges. 
But  the  bushes  of  evening  primrose,  so  piled  with 
bloom  in  the  evening,  were  bare.  Their  blossoms 
had  vanished  with  the  stars. 


104  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

Another  great,  though  half-forbidden,  attraction 
in  Vescovana  is  the  ascent  of  its  campanile,  or  bell- 
tower.  When  once  the  rickety,  break-neck  stairs 
have  been  ascended,  and  the  ropes  and  the  clock- 
work safely  evaded,  there  can  be  no  airier  nor  more 
pleasing  resting-place  in  all  Gromboolia  than  this 
little  platform  under  the  bells.  Seen  from  up  there, 
Lombardy  is  grand,  and  its  immensity  is  partly 
realised.  After  a  great  storm  it  was  a  joy  to  climb 
the  tower  and  look  upon  the  fresh-washed  plain, 
with  the  tremendous  clouds  pouring  black  sheets  of 
rain  on  the  horizon.  Also  on  summer  mornings, 
when  warm  mists  lingered  round  the  hills,  and  the 
sunlight  streamed  across  the  waving  corn,  the  place 
was  very  charming. 

A.,  however,  entertained  a  particular  aversion 
to  the  performance  by  other  people  of  a  thing 
he  himself  could  by  no  means  accomplish.  He 
had  his  revenge.  I  shall  not  all  my  life  forget 
the  horror  and  vexation  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
passed  late  one  evening  in  the  campanile  of  the 
village  church.  The  day  had  been  tempestuous. 
Towards  dinner-time  the  clouds  lifted.  An  im- 
mense desire  to  breathe  the  air  and  see  the  world 
in  the  space  of  ten  minutes  seized  upon  my 
friend  and  me.  Quite  oblivious  of  any  possible 
danger,  we  ran  out  from  the  house,  where  we  had 
suddenly  grown  weary  of  exchanging  our  views  on 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  105 

the  universe,  dashed  across  the  piazza,  and  were 
soon  at  the  top  of  the  bell-tower.  The  pageant  of 
storm  which  met  our  eyes  was  so  gorgeous  that  we 
were  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  its  many  splen- 
dours. Also  the  oppression  which  had  hung  about 
the  Doge's  Farm  for  days  had  vanished.  The  air 
was  washed  by  rain  ;  we  breathed  it  cold,  and  clear, 
and  clean.  Huge  shadows  lay  over  the  chess-board 
at  our  feet.  The  men  were  out,  pulling  the 
stacks  about  in  the  Dieci.  The  blood  of  sunset 
struggled  forth — red  and  boiling — from  a  bank  of 
thunder  in  the  west.  In  the  east  an  immense 
rainbow  spanned  the  earth  and  sky.  What  wonder 
that  we  should  ignore  the  passing  of  the  hours ! 
Suddenly  and  surely  we  were  reminded  of  them  by 
the  clash  of  the  clock  at  our  backs,  and  the  clanging 
dinner-bell  in  the  villa.  A  horrible  stampede  and 
scuttle  down  the  wooden  ladders  succeeded.  The 
door  was  locked. 

The  rest  may  be  imagined.  I  have  never  forgiven 
A.  But  he  has  forgiven  me,  for  he,  like  other 
mortals,  has  a  vast  appreciation  of  his  own  wit. 

Besides  these  forms  of  exercise  and  excitement,  I 
sometimes  took  a  tramp — such  as  my  nation  con- 
siders necessary — through  the  fields.  I  was  always 
accompanied  by  the  dogs  of  the  Doge's  Farm,  five  in 
number.  We  enjoyed  ourselves  extremely.  They 
went   through  the   solemn  farce  of  hunting  hares, 


106     DA  YS  SPENT  ON  A    DOGE'S  FARM 

where  it  is  certain  none  existed,  and  I  of  encourag- 
ing them  in  their  folly.  These  walks  were  decidedly 
monotonous,  and  I  could  never  become  accustomed 
to  the  snakes.  But  the  charm  of  monotony  in 
nature  is  sometimes  an  hypnotic  one.  Corn-flowers 
and  poppies,  poppies  and  corn-flowers;  wheat  and 
willows,  willows  and  wheat.  There  was  nothing 
else  by  the  wayside.  Yet  these  things  sufficed,  and 
it  was  always  with  regret  that  I  and  the  dogs  turned 
home. 

Perhaps  the  most  marked  change  in  the  "  system  " 
was  shown  in  the  order  of  afternoon  drives,  for  the 
victoria  was  exchanged  for  a  light  country  gig,  in 
which  I  drove  myself  when  and  where  I  would, 
across  uncultivated  fields,  along  the  sandy  paths  by 
the  canals,  and  above  the  banks  of  Adige — which 
last,  in  their  magnificence  of  breadth  and  sweep, 
rival  a  Paris  boulevard.  These  drives  are  stamped 
upon  my  brain  in  a  manner  never  to  be  effaced — 
long  hours  of  the  afternoon  or  evening — passed  in 
the  heart  of  that  country  unknown  to  any  tourist. 
It  was  then  that  I  fully  realised  the  melancholy 
charm  of  Gromboolia,  that  I  acquired  a  love  and 
admiration  both  for  the  land  and  for  the  people. 
The  one  went  back  to  Nature,  the  other  showed 
itself  human,  and  the  Bompard  way  of  explaining 
things  was  proved  to  be  but  a  pleasing  folly. 

I  found  that  no  one  night  or  evening  was  ever 


DA  YS   SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM    109 

really  like  another,  even  in  the  monotony  of  cloud- 
less summer  days.  Amongst  my  notes  I  have  the 
description  of  one  which  is  typical  and  true,  and  I 
give  it  here.  I  saw  so  many,  and  wished  that  others 
could  share  with  me  the  unexampled  beauty  of  that 
immensity  of  sky  and  plain — a  vast  stage  with  a 
passing  pageant  of  European  grandeur  spread  nightly 
forth,  while  only  one  solitary  foreign  spectator  was 
there  to  mark  the  splendour  of  its  drop-scenes,  its 
foot-lights,  and  its  inimitable  ballet. 

"  To-night  we  drove  out  from  the  Fontana  (one 
of  the  Pisani  farms)  late  in  the  sunset.  We  had 
been  called  in  to  visit  a  sick  ox.  The  administra- 
tion of  Epsom  salts  forced  down  this  huge  patient's 
throat  through  a  beer-bottle  held  by  the  Oracle, 
with  the  assistance  of  Gromboolian  cowherds,  proved 
a  long  business.  The  stable  was  hot,  the  scene  had 
lost  the  charm  of  novelty.  What  joy,  then,  to  drive 
out  into  the  air !  We  passed  through  the  lane, 
where  willows  and  acacia  cast  a  dense  shadow,  and 
out  over  the  wooden  bridge  which  has  no  parapet, 
till  we  came  to  the  road  winding  along  the  high 
banks  of  the  Gorzone  Canal.  This  is  a  delicious, 
quiet  place.  The  sand  there  lies  about  six  inches 
deep,  and  it  is  very  soft  to  drive  upon.  Small  yellow 
water-lilies  reared  their  heads  from  out  the  water, 
which  already  had  sunk  low,  and  dwindled  from  a 
river  into  a  morass.     On  the  banks  grew  bushes  of 


no  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

the  lilac  vetch,  with  a  mist  of  dust  about  its  lower 
leaves,  and  the  cool  grey  blossoms  very  sweet  to  look 
at.  Here,  too,  were  St.  John's  wort,  white  dwarf 
elder,  and  scarce  budding  mulleins. 

"All  the  centre  of  our  sky  was  shadowed  by  an 
immense  dark  cloud.  But  underneath  it  the  furnace 
of  the  low  summer  sun  burnt  hotly,  and  mighty 
shafts  of  fire  streamed  through  upon  the  green  and 
dusky  world,  gilding  its  every  edge  with  a  warm 
halo,  like  that  of  some  fair  woman's  hair.  The 
distant  Euganeans  were  green  and  blue  at  first,  till 
the  red  fingers  of  the  dying  sun  caressed  them. 
Then  they  turned  to  crimson ;  and  above  the 
golden  stubble  fields  we  saw  the  towers  of  Monselice, 
and  the  rows  or  cypress  over  Este  emerging  like 
thin  red  ghosts  against  the  pallid  green.  There  was 
a  pile  of  darker  clouds  towards  the  east,  and  always 
above  our  heads  the  big  cloud-curtain  grew  thicker 
and  blacker  till  its  body  seemed  to  encompass  all 
but  the  ends  of  the  sky,  where  those  lines  of  in- 
tensest  light  pierced  through,  flooding  the  whole 
low  land. 

"Small  clumps  of  dwarfish  trees,  beds  of  high 
marsh  rushes,  with  only  here  and  there  the  pinnacled 
thatch  of  some  mud  hut  to  break  the  interminable 
sweep  of  country.  Then  we  left  the  bank  of  the 
canal,  to  plunge  into  more  fertile  fields,  and  wound 
over  soft  brown  earthy  roads  between  high  hedges 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  in 

of  Indian  corn  and  wheat.  In  one  place  we  came 
across  some  cottages,  which  were  buried  to  their 
chimney-pots  in  the  streaming  ribands  of  maize. 
Thin  blue  smoke  rose  out  of  the  tasselled  bloom, 
cutting  the  line  of  light  on  the  horizon.  Above  the 
thunder-clouds  grew  dark  and  terrible. 

"  Every  one  was  going  home.  The  day's  work 
was  done.  The  women  bore  large  bundles  of 
corn  upon  their  heads  and  shoulders,  the  men 
slouched  idly  by. 

"  The  church  of  Vescovana  stood  up  black 
against  the  twilight — a  thin  dark  object,  painted  as 
it  were  with  a  fine  brush  and  Indian  ink.  From 
its  campanile  there  rose  and  fell  the  sound  of  the 
Ave  Maria." 


CHAPTER  V 


MAY    WANDERINGS 


IT  was  in  the  middle  of  May,  1892,  that  we 
returned  to  Vescovana.  Leaving  the  Roman 
Campagna  all  ablaze  with  poppies,  and  the  vine- 
yards full  of  baby  grapes  upon  the  smiling  hills  of 
Tuscany,  we  crossed  the  Apennines  and  came  out 
upon  the  Lombard  plain.  No  one,  it  is  certain,  can 
see  the  last  of  that  green  Arno  valley,  bejewelled 
with  white  cities  and  dark  cypress-trees,  without 
some  pulling  at  his  heart-strings.  Mine  pulled 
hard  enough,  and  I  was  therefore  startled  at  my 
own  unchanged  appreciation  of  the  flat  and  mono- 
tonous fields  which  now  surrounded  us. 

It  is  quite  certain,  however,  that  I  was  glad  to 
return  to  them  on  that  May  evening,  although  but 
some   few  days  back  we  had  lingered  in  the  star- 


BAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM     113 

light  on  the  steps  of  Trevi's  fountain,  and  watched 
the  moon  rise  over  Florence. 

I  paid  the  Doge's  Farm  but  a  very  short  visit  on 
this  occasion,  then  went  straight  on  to  Venice  with 
my  father.  The  journey  from  Vescovana  to  Venice 
was  of  a  decidedly  strange  sort.  I  find  a  letter 
written  about  it  at  the  time,  and  as  its  contents 
show  pretty  thoroughly  what  travelling  in  Grom- 
boolia  may  be  like,  I  cannot  refrain  from  quoting 
parts  of  it  here. 

"Venice,  May,  1892. 

"Dearest  L., — We  have  just  arrived — Father, 
Angelo,  and  I — in  the  train  and  steamer  from  Padua, 
and  I  seize  this  first  moment  of  repose  in  which  to 
write  to  you.  Since  last  I  wrote  we  have  lived 
last  days  at  Rome,  seen  Florence,  Vescovana,  and 
Teolo — all  this  in  the  space  of  one  week.  Ponder 
the  fact  and  admit  that  my  silence  is  well  accounted 
for.  Now  that  I  do  write  I  have  no  notion  of 
where  to  begin  my  rhapsodies,  for  they  will  be 
many.  Perhaps  the  last  has  been  the  best.  Cater- 
pillars and  an  apocalyptic  horse  are  easier  described 
than  Roman  temples. 

"When  we  left  Rome  we  went  straight  to 
Florence,  and  enjoyed  all  the  joys  of  a  visit  to 
Poggio  Gherardo,  which  house,  as  I  have  often  told 
you,  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  of  all  Italian  villas. 
Birds,  beasts,  and  orchids,  everything  to  please  one  in 

8 


114  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

the  outside  surroundings,  and  all  the  charm  of  Tuscan 
landscape  added  on,  with  delightful  society,  a  bosco 
and  a  guitar.  No  one  can  sing  and  play  Stornelli 
like  Mrs.  Ross,  that  is  certain.  She  has  got  hold  of 
the  spirit  of  the  people,  and  there  is  southern  passion 
which  moves  one  strangely,  in  her  eyes  and  in  her 
songs.  Sir  James  Lacaita  was  staying  in  Florence. 
He  brought  two  of  his  Taranto  servants  up  to 
Poggio  one  afternoon  ;  and  they,  and  every  one 
else,  danced  the  pizzica.  It  is  an  extraordinary  sort 
of  dance.  I  have  its  music  yet  in  my  head.  In  the 
evening  L.  K.  and  I  tried  to  strip  the  garden  of 
roses.  But  in  vain.  Florentine  roses  have  no  end. 
The  pink  cascade  flowed  on  unbroken  from  the 
villa  to  the  valley  of  the  Arno.  We  stayed  in 
Florence  only  three  nights,  thence  went  on  to 
Vescovana.  Arriving  in  that  place  late  at  night, 
we  were  bamboozled  into  a  thousand  follies.  We 
were  forced  to  drag  our  weary  limbs  upon  the 
balcony,  and  peering  into  the  almost  absolute  dark- 
ness with  dusty  eyes,  to  declare  we  saw  marvels  in 
the  garden,  where,  as  a  fact,  nothing  was  visible 
save  fire-flies.  In  the  morning,  however,  miracles 
were  disclosed — innumerable  mockeries  met  our  eyes. 
(Mr.  Blomfield,  by  the  by,  ought  to  feel  flattered, 
for  his  book  has  made  havoc  in  a  Lombard  plot  of 
ground.)  Half  of  the  old  field  has  been  turned 
into  a  '  formal  garden,'   and  christened  Crispin  de 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  115 

Pass.  It  is  all  plotted  out  with  grass,  and  gravel 
paths,  and  flower-beds.  Gates,  balustrades,  and 
sweet-pea  hedges  enclose  it.  Every  one  says  this 
arrangement  is  right,  that  it  gives  what  was  needed 
to  the  architecture  of  the  house.  But  for  my  part 
I  loved  the  old  way  well,  and  would  never  have  had 
it  thus  scratched  and  blotched  over.  However,  it  is 
splendidly  done,  and  in  a  year  or  two  it  will  be 
overgrown.  Biscoccia  has  run  riot  with  his  nastur- 
tium seeds.  This  plant  covers  a  multitude  of 
sins.  I  do  not  see  why  one  should  resent  it. 
A.  was  in  a  sad  mood,  which  he  declared  found 
its  origin  in  a  toothache.  Also  his  passero  solitario 
has  died  very  suddenly,  and  the  parrot  we  gave 
him,  having  bitten  him  through  the  nose,  is  feared. 
All  questions  put  to  him  are  answered  by  a  bow. 
Moreover,  he  is  writing  a  book. 

"We  had  a  splendid  time,  though  it  was  short. 
We  went  for  some  long  drives,  and  enjoyed  ourselves 
in  house  and  garden.  The  country  has  never,  per- 
haps, looked  as  beautiful  as  after  the  heavy  rains  of 
this  spring.  The  floods  were  still  out,  and  bad  in 
places,  and  K.  and  I  were  rewarded  for  the  solito 
tramp  towards  the  Adige  by  the  vision  of  hundreds 
of  lilies  shining  in  the  exact  centre  of  ditches  some 
twelve  feet  broad  !  So  we  were  forced  to  return 
empty-handed.  We  saw  the  greatest  number  of 
water-snakes  it  has  ever  been  my  luck  (or  the  reverse) 


n6  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

to  witness.  The  water  in  places  seemed  full  of  them. 
They  put  the  idea  of  paddling  after  water-lilies  quite 
out  of  the  question.  Father  joined  us  the  second 
day,  and  he  and  I  and  Angelo  left  Vescovana  and 
came  on  here  via  Teolo. 

"Teolo   is   the    highest   town    in   the   Euganean 
district.     It  is  an  idyll  in  itself — a  perfect  dream  of 
a  little  hill  town — built  in  the  heart  of  that  country, 
which  the  old  Venetians  loved  to  paint  behind  their 
saints  and    their   madonnas.     We   met  with   awful 
difficulties    in    arriving    there.      We    took    a   hired 
carriage  from  Rovigo,  and  started  at  10  a.m.  on  a 
hot  day  to  drive  across  the  plain  into  the  recesses  of 
the  hills.     Our  coachman  knew  nothing  of  the  way, 
nor    had    he    any  intelligence   of  ways    in    general. 
The  horses  were  a-weary  of  their  lives  before  they 
had  gone  two  miles,  the  day  was  unutterably  baking, 
and  Father  could  not  forget  that  all  his  manuscripts 
were  wandering  away  alone  upon  Gromboolian  rail- 
ways  in  a  small   portmanteau.     Angelo  roared   at 
things    in    general,    as    is    his    invariable    custom. 
Having  started  at  ten,  we  arrived  at  midday  where 
four  cross-roads  met.     We  were  now  absolutely  at 
sea,  and  began  our  usual  inquiries  of  quite  incom- 
petent guides.     We  had  a  fixed  idea  that  we  must 
reach  a  village  called  Vo.     '  In   the   name  of  the 
saints,  where  is  Vo  ? '  thundered  Angelo  into  the  ear 
of  a  boy  of  six.     '  Where,  cara  sposa,  oh,  tell  us 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  117 

where  is  Vo  ? '  from  the  coachman  to  a  pretty  girl, 
and,  '  Where  is  Vo  ?  •  all  round.  The  answers  were 
so  numerous,  and  so  absolutely  contradictory,  that 
when  a  gentleman  raised  his  voice  above  a  neigh- 
bouring hedge  and  roared,  '  You  are  all  of  you 
wrong ! '  we  felt  for  the  first  time  satisfied.  This 
lordly  but  invisible  being  then  pointed  out  a  new 
direction,  and  we  meekly  followed  it,  toiling  back 
along  the  way  we  had  come.  Arrived  in  a  pros- 
perous village  we  tumbled  into  its  inn  and  ordered 
a  meal.  Whilst  it  was  cooking  I  cheerfully  said  to 
the  landlord,  '  This  place  is  Vo  ? '  *  Oh  dear  no,'  he 
answered  me  promptly ;  *  it  is  quite  a  different  town.' 
Really  this  was  like  some  evil  dream.  However, 
strange  to  relate,  we  had  struck  upon  the  very  foot 
of  the  desired  hill,  so  took  our  meal  of  rice  and  eggs 
and  proceeded  up  it.  Such  flowers  we  found  there  ! 
Father  was  compelled,  by  their  beauty,  to  call  a  halt. 
Believe  me,  there  was  a  bank  enamelled  over  with 
white  cistus,  large  geraniums,  a  new  pink  orchis,  the 
giant  shaking-grass,  and,  joy  of  joys,  great  flower- 
heads  of  the  oft-desired  fraxinella !  I  did  wish  for 
you.  It  was  horribly  hot  and  snaky  on  that  bank. 
But  a  contadina  with  a  spade  came  to  the  rescue  at 
Angelo's  commands  and  dug  me  up  the  fraxinella 
roots,  whilst  I  collected  as  many  of  the  beautiful 
things  around  me  as  I  could  in  the  time.  This 
peasant  woman  was  not  surprised  at  our  admiration 


n8  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

for  the  flower,  but  she  assured  me  she  knew  nothing 
of  its  phosphorescent  qualities,  nor  did  she  in  the 
least  credit  what  I  said  upon  the  subject.  Yet  her 
mud  hut  was  surrounded  with  fraxinella  bushes,  and 
if  there  be  any  truth  in  the  tradition,  she  surely  ought 
to  have  known  of  it. 

"  We  reached  Teolo  at  about  three  that  afternoon. 
The  village  is  perched  high  on  a  shoulder  of  hill 
which  joins  the  mount  of  the  Madonna  on  to  that  of 
Pendice  and  Venda.  On  either  side  is  stretched  the 
plain.  Looking  down  upon  it,  there  is  the  usual 
strange  effect  of  a  summer  sea,  with  church  spires  and 
scattered  villages  for  sails.  It  was  Sunday.  All  the 
village  was  out  to  gape  at  us,  charming  mountain 
men  and  girls  dressed  in  coarse  blue  cotton  of  every 
shade.  We  drew  up  before  the  inn,  a  large  white 
house  which  seemed  composed  entirely  of  windows, 
and  very  low.  '  You  can  only  have  one  room,'  said 
the  landlord  ;  *  the  signorina  can  share  it,  or  sleep 
with  my  family.  There  is  another  room,'  he  con- 
tinued, when  his  first  proposals  were  met  in  silence, 
1  but  she  had  better  sleep  with  the  family.'  He,  his 
wife,  his  grandmother,  and  daughters  were  not  dis- 
agreeable ;  I  had  nothing  to  say  against  them  ;  but 
the  nights  were  hot.  As  we  ascended  the  stairs  I 
caught  the  magic  word  '  bachi,'  and  at  once  realised 
the  situation,  and  that  it  was  a  choice  of  sharing  my 
slumbers  with  the  family  or  with  their  silkworms. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  119 

I  of  course  chose  the  latter,  and  was  shown  into  a 
vast  apartment  containing  three  pieces  of  furniture — 
the  hugest  bed  you  ever  saw,  a  corn-bin,  and  an 
erection  of  wooden  beams  with  layers  of  thatch 
stretched  across  it  at  intervals,  containing  millions  of 
the  small  grey  worm  and  their  accompaniment  of 
mulberry  leaves.  *  The  smell  is  not  unwholesome,' 
explained  our  genial  host,  '  and  the  night  air  in  May 
is  hot.  You  may  open  your  window,  but  there  must 
be  no  draught.'  I  liked  to  watch  the  silkworms  and 
their  ways.  We  then  went  out  for  a  walk  up  Monte 
Pendice." 

This  hill,  unlike  the  rest  of  the  Euganeans,  is 
steep,  and  composed  of  rock.  It  is  like  a  sharp 
spine  on  the  back  of  a  whale — the  whale  is  Venda. 
The  summit  is  crowned  by  the  ruined  remains  of 
what  was  once  a  huge  fortress.  Very  large  must  the 
building  have  been,  for  even  now  its  bulwarks  alter 
the  line  of  the  hill.  Breezes  play  in  and  out  of  sub- 
terranean vaults,  calling  forth  the  ghosts  of  friars  and 
imprisoned  girls,  and  amongst  the  stones  and  heaps 
of  masonry  huge  tufts  of  henbane  flourish  on  buried 
bones.  Indeed,  one  feels  in  a  thousand  ways  that 
Pendice  has  had  a  past  and  that  man  has  turned  her 
slopes,  her  woods  and  crags,  to  his  own  uses.  Nature 
has  done  all  she  can  to  cover  the  scars  on  the  breast 
of  this  her  daughter.  But  the  feeling  is  there,  and 
not  lightly  will  chestnut  copse,  maidenhair,  and  a 


120  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

thousand  flowers  in  the  grass  efface  the  memory  of 
man.  Yet  of  all  the  Euganean  hills  Pendice  holds 
the  greatest  claim  to  picturesque  beauty.  We  stayed 
long  upon  her  topmost  crags,  watching  the  shifting 
lights  upon  the  plain.  A  small  child  played  around 
us.  Her  little  brown  figure  was  scarcely  hidden  in 
a  short  shift.  Her  bare  feet  carried  her  over  hard 
rock  and  into  chilly  caverns,  from  which  she  started 
laughing,  to  roll  upon  the  sunny  turf  and  catch  at 
ivy-berries.  She  had  gathered  all  the  smiling  sides 
of  Pendice  into  her  face ;  they  shone  in  her  charming 
brown  eyes  and  rippled  through  her  hair.  She  had 
a  brother,  a  white  goat,  and  a  dog,  and  lived  with 
her  parents  in  a  corner  of  the  castle,  which  had  been 
covered  in  for  their  use.  It  would  have  been  impos- 
sible to  find  a  thing  more  young  and  charming  than 
Giacinta.  She  made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  and  I 
shall  often  wonder  what  the  after-life  of  that  girl 
will  be  who  was  bred  in  the  romantic  regions  of 
Pendice. 

We  returned  to  our  inn  at  sunset.  During  supper, 
which  we  ate  in  the  passage,  three  gaunt  peasant 
women  stepped  into  my  room  and  proceeded  to  feed 
the  silkworms  with  mulberry  leaves,  which  they 
scattered  thickly  over  the  little  creatures.  For  some 
caprice — I  think  to  see  the  lights  of  Padua — my 
Father  and  1  determined  to  ascend  another  hill  that 
night.     The  sky  was  clouded  over,  there  was   no 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  121 

single  star.  I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  manner  in 
which  we  toiled  and  stumbled  over  rough  paths  and 
up  grass  banks.  The  only  objects  which  I  can 
remember  out  of  the  expedition  were  glow-worms 
and  carraway  flowers,  and  Angelo's  screams  as  he 
made  a  fresh  "tombola." 

"  So  well  did  I  sleep  that  night  amongst  the  silk- 
worms, that  when  aroused  at  five  I  was  glad  to  see 
a  thick  mist  creeping  in  through  my  windows,  which 
quite  put  a  stop  to  the  ascent  of  the  Madonna  we 
had  contemplated.  I  therefore  went  to  sleep  again. 
There  was  no  milk  or  butter  in  the  inn  at  Teolo. 
Black  coffee  with  raw  eggs  is,  I  suppose,  very  whole- 
some— it  isn't  nice.  The  landlord  had  gone  to 
market ;  only  the  grandmother  was  at  home,  and 
she  asked  my  Father  to  draw  up  a  bill  as  she  had  no 
views  on  the  subject.  This  he  did,  greatly  to  his 
loss,  and  by  seven  we  managed  to  get  off  in  a 
country  carriage  to  Padua.  A  more  rotten  or  a 
dirtier  framework,  pulled  by  a  sillier  sort  of  animal, 
it  was  never  my  luck  to  ride  in.  However,  we  were 
made  to  feel  that  we  ought  to  be  extremely  grateful 
to  have  it  got  out  for  us  at  all.  Father,  Angelo, 
myself,  our  hold-alls,  and  a  typical  Teolian  clown, 
crowded  into  its  intricacies  and  shambled  away  in 
the  damp  morning  through  avenues  of  endless  plane- 
trees.  It  was  a  sleepy  drive.  Our  driver  had  no 
eyes   or  ears  save  for  the  fair  sex,  whose  bows  he 


122  DAYS   SPENT   ON 

sought  by  looks,  and  whose  love  he  won  by  roses. 
On  one  occasion  a  lovely  girl  darted  from  a  deserted 
palace  with  a  mysterious  bundle,  which  he,  with  end- 
less composure,  tied  to  the  back  of  his  box.  This 
bundle  swung  against  our  noses  during  the  rest  of 
the  drive.  The  clown  then  got  down,  and,  leaving 
us  planted  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  began  a  long 
flirtation  with  the  girl,  which  only  ended  when  the 
two  saw  fit.  His  conduct  was  of  that  order  which 
baffles  the  most  intelligent,  and  we  were  powerless  to 
interfere.  Once  we  stopped  by  a  ditch  full  of  the 
grand  snowflake  flowers,  of  which  I  procured  some 
roots.  Then  we  jogged  on.  Covered  with  dirt, 
dust,  and  weeds  gathered  by  the  roadside,  we  at 
length  neared  Padua,  but  as  we  passed  the  exercising 
grounds  outside  that  city  we  fell  in  with,  and  were 
surrounded  by,  a  regiment  of  horse,  and  in  this 
military  fashion  did  we  proceed  to  those  '  Halls  of 
the  Lamp  of  Learning.'  I  suppose  we  looked  wild 
and  disreputable,  for  officers  and  men  regarded  us 
with  undisguised  interest  and  glee.  But  the  worst 
was  yet  to  come.  Two  custom-house  officers  came 
up  and  inquired  what  goods  we  were  conveying  into 
the  town.  '  We  have  nothing  with  us  except  dirty 
linen,'  volunteered  the  imperturbable  Angelo  from 
ofF  his  box.  The  officials  seemed  perfectly  satisfied, 
and  thus  your  father  and  sister  were  palmed  off"  upon 
the  potentates  of  Paduan  gates  as  any  other  set  of 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  123 

rag-bag  Jews.  The  elegant  officers  dropped  their 
glasses,  even  the  subalterns  sniffed,  whilst  their  lovely 
horses  passed  our  apocalyptic  steed  with  snorts  of 
scorn.  Arrived  within  the  city  the  clown  became  so 
bewildered  by  the  multitude  of  fair  ladies  that  he 
quite  abandoned  all  further  thoughts  of  driving. 
Gazing  at  upper  windows  where  long-haired  Paduans 
leaned  over  marble  ledges,  he  wandered  far  out  into 
unknown  suburbs,  and  we  had  the  utmost  difficulty 
in  getting  him  to  retrace  his  steps.  Also  the  horse 
turned  his  skull  hither  and  thither  in  indescribable 
mystification.  Scaffolding  blocked  our  way,  the 
street-boys  jeered.  By  a  mere  fluke  we  at  length 
drew  up  before  the  polished  retinue  of  the  Stella 
d'Oro.  There  we  shook  the  dust  from  off  us — and 
let  us  after  all  be  frank  and  own  that  some  of  our 
greatest  joys  are  those  which  can  be  afterwards 
described  to  our  friends  as  'journey  tribulations.'" 

After  this  date  I  spent  some  happy  days  at  Venice, 
and  in  the  first  week  of  June  returned  to  the  Doge's 
Farm. 


OLEANDER   FLOWER. 


CHAPTER  VI 


IN        EARLY       JUNE 

"  Quanti  immagini  un  tempo,  e  quante  fole 
Creommi  nel  pensier  l'aspetto  vostro 
E  delle  luci  a  voi  compagne  !  allora 
Che,  tacito,  seduto  in  verde  zolla 
Delle  sere  io  solea  passar  gran  parte 
Mirando  il  cielo,  ed  ascoltando  il  canto 
Delia  rana  rimota  alia  campagna  ! 
E  la  lucciola  errava  appo  le  siepi 
E  in  su  l'aiuole,  susurrando  al  vento 
I  viali  odorati  ed  i  cipressi 
La  nella  selva." 

Giacomo  Leopardi,  "Le  Ricordanze." 

r"T,HE  whole  air  seems  burdened  with  the  scent 
*      of  flowering  vine  upon  the  pergola ;  the  minds 

of  the  mosquitoes  have  been  dulled  to  stupor  in  the 

124 


DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM     125 

house  by  the  oppressive  perfume  of  much  lavender 
strewn  in  the  linen  cupboard. 

There  is  an  overwhelming  sense  of  Nature's 
honey-pot  being  opened  to  the  first  long  suns  of 
June. 

All  round  the  church  in  the  priest's  garden  you 
feel  the  honeysuckle,  and  long  before  you  can  see  its 
yellow  streamers  you  know  it  to  be  there,  twining 
with  the  fainter  jessamine.  There  is  a  wild  distrac- 
tion about  the  roses  in  this  season  too — each  one  is 
vying  with  another  for  scent  and  colour.  There  are 
small  trees  of  white  roses.  They  are  weighted  to  the 
ground  about  their  feet  by  clusters  of  the  blossom, 
looking  like  trees  in  an  Alpine  summer,  bowed  to 
the  earth  by  a  storm  of  snow. 

Privet  and  acacia  shadow  all  the  roads.  The  air 
is  literally  made  stuffy  by  the  intense  fragrance  of 
those  white  blossoms.  He  who  has  not  passed 
through  avenues  of  slim  acacia-trees  in  early  June 
can  scarcely  realise  what  a  fair  blue  sky  he  lives 
under.  I  think  nothing  magnifies  this  blue  so  much 
as  a  white  shower  of  that  flower-snow  above  our  heads. 
And  then  the  birds  !  The  passion  of  the  young 
spring's  courtship  may  have  died  out  of  their  song, 
but  another  joy  has  entered  with  the  repose  of  heat, 
and  all  day  long  you  hear  them  sing,  till  with 
the  hush  of  evening  the  small  ones  cease — all  save 
the  nightingale ;    and  with  the  night  there  comes 


126  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

across  the  fields  of  corn  the  cry  of  little  owls  at 
play  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  of  crickets  and 
innumerable  frogs. 

No  new  words  can  convey  to  the  reader  a  concep- 
tion of  the  sounds  and  sights  in  those  Italian  nights  : 
Leopardi  did  this  once  and  for  all  in  the  few  lines 
quoted  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter. 

Sometimes  I  defied  the  fever-ghost,  and  sat  out 
on  the  stone  ledge  of  my  balcony  enjoying  the  full 
delight  of  those  splendours  which  it  was  the  object 
of  every  member  of  the  household  to  shut  out  by 
bars  and  shutters.  By  slowly  drawing  the  bolts  I 
was  able  to  emerge,  unheard,  into  the  night  air,  and 
the  vision  of  outside  beauty  was  one  which  never 
failed  to  encourage  the  continuance  of  this  vicious 
habit.  Dark  carpeted  rooms  and  shaded  lamps 
between  walls,  and  outside  the  calm  splendours  of  a 
Lombard  night !  The  only  penalty  I  paid  was  an 
additional  "  zooning  "  round  my  head  at  night,  but 
these  mosquitoes  never  seemed  to  bite.  The  candle 
attracted  them,  not  the  people. 

My  balcony  was  an  ideal  spot.  You  must  go  to 
Gromboolia  to  find  another  like  it  :  a  broad  stone 
terrace,  paved  with  scagliola,  and  crowded  with  great 
jars  of  oleander  in  full  flower.  Round  it  runs  a 
marble  balustrade,  and  below  this  the  pergola,  which 
shadows  all  the  basement.  Here  roses,  vines,  and 
many  sorts  of  creepers  throw  out  long  streamers  to 


A    DOGE'S  FARM 


127 


meet  pomegranite  and  wistaria  upon  the  southern 
house  wall.  There,  in  the  hush  of  those  June  nights, 
one  hears  them  sing — the  happy  nightingales.  I  call 
them  happy,  for  I  do  not  believe  that  such  floods  of 
sudden  rippling  music  were  ever  born  of  misery.     It 


all'  albera. 


breaks  uncalled  for  into  the  shadowy  world,  a  song 
of  morning  before  the  night  is  well  begun. 

I  spoke  of  a  hush,  but  this  is  scarcely  true,  for 
there  is  no  silence  in  the  nights,  only  a  sense  of  sound 
suppressed.  There  is  a  hum,  a  stir,  a  feeling  of  a 
life  lived  always  after  the  setting  sun.  First,  very 
many   miles  away,   the   faint  hum  of  the  masses  ; 


128  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

then,  nearer,  the  distinguishment  of  all  the  several 
sounds.     Frogs,  and  the  small  owl  who  cries  like  a 
wailing  child,  and  the  bigger  owl  who  ruffles  his 
heavy  wings  among  the  "trees,  and  calls  aloud  with 
tremulous  hooting ;  bats,  flies,  the  click-click  of  in- 
terminable crickets,  almost  the  moving  of  fire-flies  in 
the  grass,  and  the  muffled  squeaks  of  baby  swallows 
talking  in  sleep   below  the  eaves.     Above,   the  big 
round  summer   moon,  climbing    over   a   clump   of 
cedars  in  the  garden — so  big,  so  round,  it  covered  all 
the  heaven  with  light,  obscuring  every  star  and  sun 
in  the  fathomless  reaches  of  the  sky.     Its  rays  fell 
upon  the  rose-leaves  by  the  pergola,  and  I  could  see 
the  colours  of  the  oleanders.     The  rose-leaves  seemed 
quite  white,  they  shone  as  though  fresh  rain  had 
fallen  on  them.      And   as   I    watched  I  saw  small 
moths  were    humming  in  amongst  their  flowers — 
brown  filmy  beings.     There  was  no  inch  without  its 
living  creatures.     A  thin  wind  ruffled  the  air  and 
stirred  the  rose-leaves.     Sitting  very  still,  I   heard 
strange  shuffling  sounds  like  that  of  sudden  footsteps 
on  the  gravel  in  the  garden,  and  under  the  arcades. 
Did  some  old  Pisani  walk — come  back  to  his  farm 
in  the  form  of  a  polecat,  to   see  how    a   modern 
dogaressa  kept  it  for  him  in  the  nineteenth  century  ? 
One  is  well  inclined  to  believe  strange  and  unlikely 
things  when  living  in  large  lonely  villas  upon  the 
Italian  plains. 


cardinal's  umbrella. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    MELANCHOLY    OF    THE    PLAIN 

"  Et  dans  cet  horizon,  plein  de  grace  et  d'ennui." 

Alfred  de  Musset. 

'  I  'O  be  truthful,  I  must  state  at  once  that  the 
*  effect  of  life  in  this  plain  seems  to  be  a 
saddening  one.  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  cities, 
for  the  people  of  Milan,  Padua,  Verona,  leave  an 
impression  of  brightness  upon  one's  mind.  I  talk 
of  the  absolute  country.  Its  natives  have  a  look 
which  the  English  word  "  hang-dog "  expresses 
thoroughly.  Yet  this  look  only  applies  to  the 
expression  of  their  faces.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  find  a  set  of  more  sober  or  cleanly  country  people. 
Their  houses  are  models  of  order  and  economy. 
The  most  miserable  mud  hut  can  be  entered  at  any 

9  I29 


i30 


DAYS  SPENT  ON 


hour  of  the  day.  Its  big  bed,  stuffed  with  the 
husks  of  maize,  will  be  spotlessly  clean  and  smoothly 
made,  although  the  hens  may  be  running  under  it, 
and  the  turkeys  sitting  in  baskets  by  its  side.    There 


LIVING  HOUSE,   WITH   EUGANEAN   HILLS  AND  ALPS   IN  THE   DISTANCE. 

will  not  be  a  cinder  on  the  hearth,  save  in  the  exact 
middle,  where  a  neat  pile  of  sticks  crackle  under  the 
pot  of  polenta ;  and  however  poor  the  inhabitants, 
there  will  surely  be  a  good  show  of  burnished  copper 


COPPER  BASIN   AND  TOWEL. 


pails  or  platters  along  the  wall.  Yet  at  this  point 
any  description  of  pleasing  objects  has  to  cease.  The 
house  is  usually  composed  of  two  to  three  rooms  on 
the   basement — upper  storeys  are  abhorred   by  the 


A   DOGESS  FARM 


131 


native — its  walls  painted  white,  and  usually  composed 
of  mud  and  reeds,  the  roof  made  of  thatch,  and  not 


COPPER 


WATER-CAN. 


a  flower  or  a  creeper  to  brighten  the  eternal  vista  of 
corn  or  maize. 

I 


"  Mil"* 


&&&Z 


■MH 


t 


FARMHOUSE  AND  STABLES. 


There  is  a  saying,  and  one  is  almost  inclined  to 


132    DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

believe  it  true,  that  this  land  was  originally  stocked 
with  inhabitants  from  the  Venetian  galleys.  It  was  a 
miserable  and  marshy  waste,  into  which  no  one  chose 
to  penetrate  for  personal  pleasure  or  profit.  Its  owners 
therefore  adopted  this  method  of  colonisation.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  fact  remains  that  the  Basso- 
Padovani  have  some  feeling  about  their  land  which 
does  not  make  them  altogether  rejoice  in  it.  There 
is  an  habitual  melancholy  about  them  and  their  ways 
— a  slow  inaptitude  for  work  which  is  deeply  de- 
pressing to  the  exalted  demands  of  the  stranger. 

I  stayed  amongst  them  through  their  happiest 
time — harvest ;  and  although  I  suppose  that  in  their 
own  way  they  were  happy,  there  was  so  little  out- 
ward appearance  of  it  that  I  could  not  remark  any 
touch  of  gladness  save  in  the  hours  of  gleaning. 
The  very  songs  which  they  sang  at  their  work  were 
weighted  with  a  human  misery  which  was  almost 
discordant ;  and  lacking  any  hope  or  sunshine  such 
as  may  be  reflected  back  upon  a  happier  soul,  they 
almost  startled  one. 

The  hours  of  work  appeared  to  me  to  be  very 
long.  The  harvesters  began  at  three  and  ended  at 
seven,  with  only  four  hours  of  rest. 

As  a  race,  the  country  folk  are  not  good-looking, 
though  they  all  possess  the  charm  of  lithe  and  easy 
movements  peculiar  to  a  warm  climate.  As  they 
never  wear  shoes,  their  walk  has  acquired  that  ease 


CORNER  OF  A  GROMBOOLIAN   KITCHEN. 


DAYS  SPEN'i    ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM      135 

and  grace  which  is  so  hopelessly  lacking  in  the 
mountaineer.  The  women,  too,  have  the  most  mag- 
nificent hair,  in  which  they  feel  just  interest  and 
pride.  It  is  a  remarkable  and  pleasing  spectacle  to 
drive  along  the  roads  on  a  Saturday  evening,  when 
every  cottage  lady  lets   down   her   abundant  locks 


FARMHOUSE,   WITH   VINE  GROWN  OVER  THE   PORCH. 

before  the  house  door,  and  has  them  combed  and 
plaited  for  the  ensuing  week.  They  rarely  if  ever 
do  their  own  hair,  though  it  is  an  art  in  which  they 
all  excel.  A  carnation,  or  a  sprig  of  golden-rod 
pinned  over  the  right  ear,  adds  a  great  charm  to  this 
coiffure.  The  hair  is  always  parted  in  the  middle, 
and  is  usually  dark. 


136 


BAYS   SPENT  ON 


The  women  grow  old  before  their  time,  and  the 
men's  hair  turns  early  white. 

The  fever  usually  begins  in  August,  when  water  is 
scarce,  and  green  grapes  and  unripe  corn  are  eaten 
without  discretion.     It  is  a  dreadful  curse,  and  the 


IN  THE  VILLAGE  OF  VESCOVANA. 


fear  of  it  detracts  in  no  small  measure  from  the 
pleasures  of  a  lover  of  summer  nights,  accustomed 
to  enjoy  their  splendour  hitherto  in  northern 
climes. 

In  the  space  of  twelve  months  there  have  been 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  137 

five  suicides  in  the  village  of  Vescovana  alone. 
"  Why  do  you  wish  to  die  ?  *•  asked  the  priest  of  a 
doctor's  son,  who,  a  few  days  later,  proved  the 
strength  of  his  expressed  desire. 

"  In  the  life  of  this  place  there  is  no  joy  of  any 
kind.  There  is  never  anything  new,"  answered  the 
unhappy  boy.  For  he  was  unhappy,  through  the 
excess  of  that  thing  which  even  in  the  rush  of  a 
town-life  is  called  boredom. 

Monotony — that  is  the  best  explanation  of  the 
melancholy  I  have  described  :  the  knowledge  that 
all  these  crops  will  come  and  go,  come  and  go  again 
in  the  same  field,  in  the  same  manner,  and  that,  the 
wages  paid,  the  cattle  fed,  and  the  taxes  given,  there 
will  remain  of  all  this  plenty  but  just  enough  to 
keep  body  and  soul  over  together  till  the  next 
harvest  season,  and  not  one  line  be  altered,  not  one 
stranger  pass,  nor  ever  a  hill  arise  upon  this  inter- 
minable plain. 


GREEN   TREE-FROG. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


FLOWERS    OF    THE     PLAIN 


"And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There   grew   broad   flag-flowers,  purple   prankt  with 
white, 
And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge, 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  which  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen." 

Shelley,  "The  Question." 

THE  flora  is  naturally  limited  upon   this  plain, 
where   every  available    inch    is   cultivated  by 

man.     As  one  nears  the  hills  a  marked  difference  is 

138 


DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM     139 

seen  in  the  wild  flowers.  In  the  heart  of  Gromboolia, 
however,  little  variety  is  found,  save  in  the  ditches, 
or  along  the  sides  of  the  canals.  Yet  Shelley  went 
out  and  made  a  wonderful  nosegay  in  a  ditch,  and 
I  think  there  are  few  flowers  more  lovely  than  those 
that  grow  in  water.  Apart  from  these,  vetches  are 
best  represented.  There  is  one  with  a  white  and 
lilac  blossom.  It  grows  along  the  dustiest  highway, 
clean  and  fragrant,  rising  to  a  bush  of  sometimes  two 
feet  in  height.  Then  there  is  its  sister,  whose  flower- 
head  is  round,  and  who  delights  to  climb  up  out  or 
a  ditch  in  company  with  her  yellow  brother,  the 
water  about  their  feet,  and  their  heads  resting  in 
the  pure  light  upon  the  maples  or  the  privet 
bushes. 

White  and  yellow  nymphasas  abound  in  certain 
parts  ;  and  the  yellow  iris,  arrow-head,  bog  forget- 
me-not,  loosestrife,  and  flowering  rush  are  every- 
where. The  pond-weed  grows  in  great  abundance 
both  in  the  ditches  and  stretches  of  sandy  soil.  Its 
flower  stalk  will  measure  three  feet  sometimes,  the 
broad,  green  leaves  contrasting  strangely  with  such 
a  feathery  bloom.  Some  few  salvias,  daisy  flowers, 
and  umbelliferae  stray  into  the  grass  of  the  meadows, 
but  they  are  rare. 

The  wonder  of  the  flora  appears  in  the  first  weeks 
of  July.  It  is  the  convolvulus.  Rightly  the  Americans 
have  called  that  flower  the  Morning  Glory.     It  was 


140  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

Walt  Whitman  who  said,  "A  morning  glory  at  my 
window  satisfies  me  more  than  the  metaphysics  of 
books."  In  the  early  morning  the  hedges  are  literally 
transfigured  by  this  flower.  Hundreds  and  thousands 
of  them  clamber  up  the  dingy  thatch,  the  gates,  and 
all  the  hedges,  or  writhe  their  slender  tendrils  round 
the  wheat,  or  burst  pale  buds  amongst  the  stalks  or 
maize.  It  is  the  large  white  convolvulus  which  is 
most  abundant :  the  pink  one  tries  to  overcome  the 
dust  along  the  edges  of  the  roads — a  small  pure 
thing,  so  sweet  and  clean  and  bright,  you  marvel  at 
its  existence  along  the  smothering  highway. 

Another  cause  for  this  scarcity  of  wild  flowers  is 
the  great  richness  of  the  soil.  It  reaches  to  a  depth 
of  fifty  centimetres,  and  is  so  thick  and  heavy  that 
fibrous  roots  are  withered  and  crushed  in  their 
attempts  to  penetrate  it.  Indian  corn  and  wheat 
grow  to  a  height  and  splendour  which  would 
astonish  the  English  rustic.  But  then  he  might  look 
in  vain  for  the  familiar  primrose,  the  cowslip,  or  the 
periwinkle  along  these  monotonous  levels.  Here  is 
no  copse,  nor  any  little  rill  or  flowering  lane — always 
and  always  the  cultivated  fields.  Nor  would  an 
English  horse  pull  the  plough  across  the  sticky  sods. 

Early  spring,  with  its  violets,  must  indeed  be  a 
beautiful  time  in  Gromboolia.  I  have  never  myself 
seen  it,  but  find  a  letter  of  my  sister  concerning  it, 
and  quote  from  that  : — 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  141 

"Spring  here  is  intoxicating  certainly.  It  comes 
with  a  burst  and  fills  one's  heart  and  soul  with  a  new 
sweetness.  Could  you  see  the  violets  here,  I  think 
you  would  cry.  They  flood  the  ground  with  their 
blue,  they  nod  their  little  heads  and  pass  away  into 
the  dark  pine  shade  of  the  garden.  They  fill  the 
air  with  strongest  scent.  Come  quickly  before  they 
die.  Every  ditch  and  hedge  and  dusky  bank  is  alive 
with  them.  I  never  saw  such  a  world.  The  blackbirds 
have  been  singing  so  hard — it  seemed  they  must  get 
tired.  But  they  never  do.  And  the  larks  are  mad. 
Madame  Pisani  has  just  brought  in  a  bunch  of 
tulips,  gold  and  scarlet  single  ones,  narcissus  too, 
and  daffodils.     Every  day  new  flowers  come  out." 

A  great  many  beetles  and  birds  and  grubs  inhabit 
Gromboolia,  and  dragon-flies  innumerable.  The 
blue  dragon-fly  is  bigger  than  his  brethren.  His  body 
measures  over  two  inches  in  length,  and  is  painted 
like  a  turquoise.  The  red  one  is  smaller,  but  so 
brilliant  in  colour  you  can  see  his  quivering  form 
upon  the  trunk  of  the  willow-trees  from  a  great 
distance.  The  green  one  is  so  common  that  I  have 
literally  seen  a  small  cloud  in  the  air  of  the  garden 
composed  entirely  of  these  shining  insects. 

If  any  one  felt  a  desire  to  study  the  life  and 
customs  of  the  peacock  butterfly,  he  should  come 
to  these  parts  in  June.     Then  the  pale  lilac  of  the 


142  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

lucerne  fields  is  all  speckled  over  with  large  black 
wings,  which,  lazily  unfolding  to  the  heated  air, 
disclose  those  brilliant  points  of  colour  so  rare  in 
other  parts,  seen  in  such  myriads  here.  Also  in  the 
corn-fields,  where  the  purple  thistles  grow,  some- 
times too  well  to  please  the  farmer,  though  not 
thick  enough  to  gratify  the  greedy  colour-love  of 
painters,  you  will  find  the  peacock  butterflies  in 
crowds  playing  amongst  the  down. 

There  are  a  good  many  birds  even  in  this  country, 
where  the  tiny  body  of  a  blackcap  or  the  breast  of  a 
nightingale  is  considered  fit  food  for  a  man.  I  know 
too  little  of  their  names  to  attempt  to  number  them ; 
but  wild-duck  and  water-hen,  with  sometimes  a 
grey  crane,  are  found  in  the  marshes.  Doves  in 
great  numbers,  cuckoos,  small  hawks,  and  starlings 
flourish  in  the  fields ;  whilst  every  kind  of  singing 
bird  flocks  to  the  garden,  together  with  magpies, 
woodpeckers,  and  water-wagtails.  The  butcher  bird 
is  the  most  marked  feature  in  the  bird  foreground  of 
Gromboolian  landscapes.  On  every  hedge  or  willow- 
tree  you  will  see  his  dapper,  well-groomed  form,  with 
the  neat  grey  waistcoat  and  elegant  brown  wings, 
the  black  ear-caps  and  smoky  wideawake,  so  well  in 
keeping  with  the  surrounding  tone  of  colour.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  see  him  at  his  work  of  impaling 
beetles,  but  there  is  a  murderous  determination  about 
his  little  eyes. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  143 

Frogs  are  the  peculiarity  of  Lombardy.  The 
very  causes  which  prevent  the  existence  of  other 
plants  and  animals  make  theirs  a  joy.  The  country 
is  simply  laid  out  for  them.  In  June  nights  they 
raise  their  voices  over  the  entire  land — the  whole  of 
North  Italy  seems  composed  of  frogs.  In  July  their 
voices  are  still,  but  the  tadpoles  leave  the  ditches  in 
which  they  have  been  reared,  and  when  you  walk 
along  the  roads  or  fields  it  is  brought  home  to  you 
pretty  thoroughly  in  what  manner  the  Egyptians  were 
plagued.  Hundreds  and  thousands  of  small  black 
objects  hop  off  at  your  approach.  The  green  tree- 
frog  is  undeniably  a  fascinating  reptile.  On  every 
tree,  and  on  the  leaves  of  rushes,  you  will  find  his 
small  body,  green  as  the  grass,  pressed  tight  against 
his  seat.  The  keen  black  eyes  twinkle,  the  little 
white  sides  throb.  Entranced,  you  try  to  pick  him 
up,  and  off  he  jumps  across  the  ditch  to  balance  on 
some  waving  stalk  or  rush.  You  cannot  believe  that 
this  small  shining  emerald  will,  as  night  falls,  produce 
those  deep  and  guttural  sounds  which  almost  over- 
come the  songs  of  nightingales,  and  pall  on  the 
sensitive  ear.  Perhaps  Nature  has  created  nothing 
more  fragile  or  more  lovely  than  the  baby  tree- 
frog. 

There  are  quantities  of  water-snakes  in  all  the 
ditches.  As  you  walk  along  you  see  a  small  head 
passing  over  the  weeds  and  water,  with  behind  a 


144    DAYS   SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

long  and  writhing  body — grey-green  and  speckled. 
Others  may  sing  the  praises  of  the  water-snake  : 
he  fills  my  whole  soul  with  repulsion,  although 
I  know  him  to  be  as  harmless  as  the  lovely  baby 
tree-frog. 


T'AMO    PIO   BOVE 

"  I  love  thee,  pious  ox  ;    a  gentle  feeling 
Of  vigour  and  of  peace  thou  giv'st  my  heart. 
How  solemn,  like  a  monument,  thou  art  ! 
Over  wide  fertile  fields  thy  calm  gaze  stealing, 
Unto  the  yoke  with  grave  contentment  kneeling, 
To  man's  quick  work  thou  dost  thy  strength  impart. 
He  shouts  and  goads,  and  answering  thy  smart, 
Thou  turn'st  on  him  thy  patient  eyes,  appealing. 
From  thy  broad  nostrils,  black  and  wet,  arise 
Thy  breath's  soft  fumes ;  and  on  the  still  air  swells 
Like  happy  hymn,  thy  lowings  mellow  strain. 
In  the  grave  sweetness  of  thy  tranquil  eyes 
Of  emerald,  broad  and  still  reflected,  dwells 
All  the  divine  green  silence  of  the  plain." 

Translated  from  the  Italian  of  Carducci,  by  Frank  Sewall, 


WHEN    Count   Almoro    III.    died    he   left  the 
whole  of  his  property  and  the  entire  manage- 
ment of  it  to  his  wife.     This  lady  knew  nothing 

10  I45 


146  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

of  farms  or  farming.  She  had  lived  her  life 
hitherto  wholly  in  the  villa,  or  driving  her  ponies 
away  into  the  hills  during  the  months  which  she  and 
her  husband  spent  on  their  Italian  estate.  Her  care 
had  been  for  her  house  and  garden.  She  left  the 
bailiffs  and  tenants  to  her  husband. 

Armed  with  the  peculiar  intelligence  of  a  woman, 
common  sense,  and  a  deep  human  sympathy — also  a 
considerable  love  of  command — she  entered  upon  her 
new  duties.  They  were  certainly  not  light  ones,  nor 
had  the  way  been  well  prepared  ror  her.  The  first 
thing  which  she  realised  was  that  the  oxen  were  the 
chief  feature — the  absolute  necessity  in  Lombard 
economy.  Therefore  care  of  her  stables  was  her 
immediate  duty.  Of  Pisani  cattle  there  were  then 
but  twenty  on  a  territory  of  3,000  acres  ;  and  ten 
oxen  are  considered  the  right  number  to  plough  sixty 
acres  in  those  parts.  The  only  hopeful  side  of  this 
apparently  desperate  matter  was  that  the  Pisani  breed 
was  famous  for  its  strength  and  beauty.  Most  or 
the  Contessa's  land  was  in  the  hands  of  peasant 
tenants.  She  received  small  rents  from  these  people, 
whose  object  it  was  to  strain  her  ground  in  every 
possible  way,  and  weaken  its  powers  of  production 
through  narrowsightedness.  It  may  be  imagined 
that  her  income  from  the  estate  was  small  indeed 
when  the  taxes  and  everything  else  had  been  paid, 
and  there  is  no  one  who  will  not  admire  and  marvel 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  147 

at  the  power  and  energy  of  this  lady  when  they  hear 
that  after  twelve  years  of  her  personal  management 
the  Pisani  estate  can  number  five  hundred  head  of 
cattle,  and  that  nearly  all  the  farms  are  in  good  con- 
dition in  her  own  hands,  managed  by  herself  through 
bailiffs  whom  she  selects  and  pays  with  the  produce 
of  the  land.  All  this  without  further  capital  than 
the  land  itself — putting  back  yearly  what  she  takes 
out.  At  the  time  in  which  I  write  the  Pisani  estate  is 
reckoned  one  of  the  best  managed  in  that  part  or  the 
country,  and  the  stables  are  considered  as  models 
which  people  will  travel  far  to  see.  Englishwomen 
are  said  to  be  capable  of  wonderful  things.  Certainly 
I  have  met  one  at  least  in  a  remote  corner  of  Italy 
whose  life  work  is  no  trifling  matter. 

Wearisome  to  a  degree,  tiring  and  apparently 
unprofitable,  is  the  round  of  great  and  small  affairs 
which  pass  through  that  single  head  and  are  settled 
by  that  single  hand  day  after  day,  season  after  sea- 
son. From  the  choice  of  a  bailiff  to  the  dismissal  of 
a  cowboy,  from  the  building  of  an  outhouse  to  the 
summons  of  a  neighbour  to  the  law  courts,  nothing 
is  too  hard  nor  yet  too  trivial  for  her  notice.  She 
designs  her  stone-carts,  she  selects  her  sugar.  She 
orders  the  dinner,  and  she  receives  at  it  an  empress 
or  an  engineer.  Nothing  is  too  small,  and  certainly 
nothing  too  big,  to  be  decided  by  this  autocrat  or 
Gromboolia.     In  consequence  of  which  facts  strange 


148  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

stories  circulate  about  the  lady  and  her  kingdom  in 
other  parts  of  Italy. 

It  was  said  in  Florence  that  when  population 
threatened  to  decrease  on  the  Pisani  estates,  their 
mistress  summoned  all  the  unmarried  youth  of  her 
farms  under  the  barchesse  of  Vescovana,  there 
divided  them  into  rows,  regarded  their  features,  and 
summed  up  their  characters  in  the  space  of  some 
minutes,  then  made  a  match  and  decreed  the  imme- 
diate matrimony  of  those  pairs  she  had  selected  thus  : 
"  You,  Celeste,  shall  marry  Tabarro.  Your  figure 
is  tall  and  slim,  his  is  broad  and  firm — you  will  pull 
along  together.  And  you,  young  Gallo,  can  take  to 
yourself  Maria.  She  is  a  good  cook,  though  she  is 
fat.  You  will  submit  to  her  rule,  for  you  are  rather 
weak-minded,  and  you  will  poach  no  more  in  my 
ponds.  You  two  there  have  black  and  yellow  hair, 
and  will  match  very  well  together,"  &c,  &c.  The 
story  went  that  these  matches  were  at  once  com- 
pleted— the  word  of  the  Contessa  being  law. 

I  need  scarcely  say  that  there  was  no  more  truth 
in  this  than  in  any  other  gossip  of  the  like  nature. 
A  mustard  seed  dropped  by  the  roadside  had  produced 
a  forest  of  oaks.  That  the  mustard  seed  did  drop  I 
cannot  deny,  for  it  is  certain  the  Contessa  takes  a 
lively  and  patriarchal  interest  in  the  concerns  of  her 
people,  and  that  the  older  ones  ask  her  advice  in  the 
love  affairs  of  their  children.     I  know  this  for  certain, 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  149 

having  been  present  at  like  strange  discussions,  mar- 
velling at  the  unparalleled  candour  and  unconcern 
with  which  delicate  topics  were  handled.  Indeed  the 
voice  of  the  mistress  is  raised  as  surely  over  the  ques- 
tion of  whether  Joanna  shall  or  shall  not  keep  com- 
pany with  Umberto,  as  of  whether  corn  has  or  has 
not  been  stolen  from  the  threshing-floor.  No  one, 
however,  must  believe  that  the  Gromboolians  are 
a  race  without  romance.  This  people's  nature  is 
capable  of  passionate  attachments  and  immovable 
loves.  I  know  the  story  of  a  girl  whose  lover  had 
forsaken  her  in  spring.  In  summer  she  fell  sick 
of  heart-break.  In  the  fall  of  the  year  she  died. 
The  Contessa  went  to  see  her  during  her  last  illness. 
"The  autumn  air  is  chill  and  damp.  It  is  dreary 
for  you  and  sad,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  no,"  answered  the 
dying  girl,  "  I  am  fond  of  the  autumn,  for  then  the 
leaves  are  fallen  from  the  trees,  and  I  can  watch 
the  window  or  my  love." 

Yet  this  lover  had  proved  false  to  her,  and  for  the 
loss  of  his  love  she  died. 

I  shall  not  forget  the  extraordinary  episode  which 
I  witnessed  one  morning  in  Gromboolia.  It  was  a 
dead  hot  day — hotter  than  any  other  day  I  had  yet 
awakened  to.  All  the  same,  we  went  out  into  it  at 
about  eleven,  for  there  was  a  hitch  in  the  threshing- 
machine  at  the  Pioppa  which  the  Contessa's  presence 
was   expected    to   mend.      The    Pioppa,   so   called 


150  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

because  of  a  certain  poplar-tree  which  shadows  its 
well,  is  one  of  the  smallest  farms  on  the  estate.  It 
is  nearly  eight  miles  from  Vescovana  if  one  drives  to 
it  in  the  Calais-Douvre  along  Napoleon's  road  ;  but 
if  one  is  mean,  and  the  conductor  of  gigs,  one  can 
approach  it  by  a  very  narrow  bridge  spanning  the 
Gorzone  Canal.  This  the  Contessa  consented  to  do 
on  that  hot  morning,  and  so  she  travelled  incognita, 
and  the  youth  of  the  Doge's  Farm  went  its  wicked 
way  regardless  of  her  presence.  No  one  ever  paid 
the  slightest  regard  to  the  gig,  which  usually  con- 
tained nothing  further  than  a  mad  "Inglesina"  and 
a  servant.  They  never  dreamed  that  the  padrona 
herself  would  condescend  so  far  as  to  drive  in  it. 
When  we  came  to  the  hill  below  the  canal  we 
stopped  to  adjust  some  bottles  of  Epsom  Salts  packed 
at  our  feet.  A  girl  was  leaning  over  the  bridge. 
She  was  a  beautiful  creature,  though  small  and 
delicate — of  fifteen  summers,  not  more.  Her  black 
hair  fell  in  heavy  locks  over  her  moody  brow  ;  her 
slim  figure  bent  like  the  willow  in  the  waters  below 
her.  All  the  melancholy  of  the  plain  was  gathered 
into  her  eyes.  I  watched  her  curiously,  and  pointed 
her  out  to  the  Contessa.  A  young  man  with  a  great 
swagger  and  of  considerable  beauty  ran  up  the  dusty 
road.  The  girl  watched  him  coming,  and  as  she  did 
so  an  extraordinary  joy  mixed  with  anguish  swept 
over  her.     The  young  man  kissed  her.     Then  he 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  151 

passed  on,  swinging  his  tall  and  handsome  figure  in 
the  noonday  heat.  He  never  looked  back  to  the  girl 
on  the  bridge. 

"  Are  they  engaged  ?  "  asked  the  Contessa  of  an 
old  woman  crouched  on  the  threshold  of  a  neigh- 
bouring farm. 

"  No,  Signora  Contessa.     He  loves  another  girl." 

"  Ah  !     She  alone  is  innamorata,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

(This  was  only  too  evident.) 

"  Hola !  "  said  the  Contessa,  as  I  whipped  Bandis 
up  the  hill.  "  Tou  love  that  briccone  when  he  does 
not  love  you — don't !  "  she  decreed  from  under  the 
awning  of  the  gig  as  we  passed  the  unhappy  girl. 
u  And  you,"  she  called,  in  pursuit  of  the  gay 
deceiver — "  you  shall  never  kiss  one  girl  in  my 
property  when  you  really  are  in  love  with 
another  !  " 

I  believe  if  this  imperious  lady  owned  Westminster 
she  would  attempt  to  control  its  slums.  She  com- 
plains that  her  people  do  not  obey  her,  but  they  at 
least  ask  her  opinion  of  their  most  trifling  concerns, 
and  she  rules  them  in  a  marvellous  manner.  There 
is  no  single  one  of  her  farms  which  is  not  kept  in  fit 
order  for  her  critical  eye  to  survey  it  at  any  hour 
of  the  day  when  she  may  choose  to  turn  up.  And 
she  does  turn  up  regularly  in  the  course  of  time. 
Nothing   escapes   her   notice,   from   the   extra   hen 


152 


DAYS  SPENT  ON 


poaching  in  her  crops  to  the  last  batch  of  kittens 
squealing  in  the  hayloft. 

When  Madame  Pisani  assumed  the  reins  of  office 
her  farms  were  in  a  state  of  abandonment  and  decay 
which  no  one  can  imagine  who  sees  them  in  their 
present  prosperity.      Her   husband    had    expended 


FARM   OF  THE   MANFREDINI. 


all  his  energy  in  draining  the  land  and  clearing  off 
the  mortgages.  So  she  reaped  this  advantage  from 
labours  which  are  none  the  less  because  they  show 
so  little.  She  at  once  set  to  work  to  clean  out  the 
filth  of  the  Augean  stables,  to  pull  down  and  rebuild 
their  ill-planned  and  decaying  walls.     The  low  roofs, 


A   DOGE'S  FARM 


153 


the  stuffy,  ill-drained  floors,  were  exchanged  for  high 
beam-ceilings,  with  barns  above  wherein  to  stack  the 
hay,  and  clean  stalls  and  pathways  down  the  middle. 
Each  stall  has  a  neat  open  window  before  it  to  rejoice 
the  large  inquiring  eyes  of  its  inhabitants  and  keep 
them  bright.  Through  these  little  windows  you  can 
see  tiny  silhouettes  of  distant  trees,  and  sometimes  a 
faint  blue  Euganean  hill  is  framed  between  the  horns 


STABLES,    FONTANA. 

of  a  Lombard  ox.  Outside  the  row  of  windows  runs 
an  awning  of  rush  matting  to  obstruct  the  hot  rays 
of  summer  suns  and  check  the  frosts  of  winter.  At 
either  end  of  the  stable  there  is  a  big  door  kept 
always  open  to  admit  the  sweetest  air.  A  blue 
cotton  curtain  hangs  across  this  entrance.  Big 
bunches  of  mint  and  willow  dangle  from  the  ceiling 
and  attract  the  meddling  flies.     The  cowherds'  beds 


154  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

are  built  into  the  middle  stalls — broad  wooden  ledges 
like  the  berths  of  a  ship — stuffed  with  hay,  and  pink 
check  pillow-cases.  An  image  of  Saint  Anthony — 
the  patron  of  the  stables — a  calendar,  or  a  Saint 
George,  are  nailed  to  the  wall  above,  and  opposite  is 
the  toilet-table  of  the  oxen.  Here  hang  the  long 
light  yokes,  the  shining  chains  and  crimson  ciapog- 
liere.  The  stalls  are  always  very  clean,  the  straw  in 
them  is  dry  and  rustling.  You  can  go  and  sit  in  the 
big  smooth  mangers  and  caress  the  baby  calves. 
Indeed  the  stables  on  the  Doge's  Farm  are  pleasant 
places.  Hours  I  have  spent  in  them,  studying  with 
love  and  admiration  their  soft-eyed  inhabitants.  The 
great  beasts  rarely  get  excited,  and  they  like  to  be 
caressed  by  man.  They  very  easily  learn  to  love 
one,  and  turn  huge  heads  to  meet  caresses  just  as 
willingly,  I  vow,  as  salt  or  hay.  Their  spreading 
horns,  measuring  from  two  to  three  feet  across,  are 
admirably  controlled,  unwieldy  though  they  seem. 
They  rarely  jerk  them  up,  and  when  you  stroke 
them  they  are  warm  and  smooth  like  silk.  Also  the 
oxen  know  their  names — their  wonderful  classical  or 
modern  English  names.  "Gladstone"  and  "Homer," 
"  Cymbeline "  and  "  Alcibiades,"  draw  up  their 
colossal  haunches  and  arise  from  their  knees  when 
called.  And  I  must  here  put  in  a  word  for  the 
extraordinary  intelligence  of  the  abused  Gromboolian 
cowherds,  who,  totally  unable  to  read  or  write,  can 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  155 

yet  learn  off  a  string  of  these  strange  titles  which 
convey  no  single  meaning  to  their  ears. 

Madame  Pisani  tells  me  that  when  first  she  came 
to  Vescovana  the  cowherds  imagined  that  they  could 
pay  her  no  greater  or  more  signal  compliment  than 
by  calling  one  of  their  cows  "  Contessa."  There- 
fore, when  walking  in  the  fields  one  day,  she  was 
arrested  by  yells  of  "  Contessa."  These,  however, 
she  found  to  be  addressed  to  a  beautiful  white  cow 
ploughing  in  the  neighbouring  stubble.  She  tells 
me  also  that  under  the  Austrian  Government  a 
cowherd,  called  Magrin,  was  had  up  before  the 
police  for  naming  his  bull  "  Imperatore."  The  poor 
man  said  in  self-defence,  and  to  the  general  amuse- 
ment of  the  court,  "Che  credeva  onorare  sua  Maesta, 
perche  il  toro  era  bellissimo  !  " 

There  is  an  immense  dignity  about  the  bulls  and 
oxen.  The  young  cows  are  somewhat  more  wayward ; 
they  jerk  about,  shrug  their  shoulders,  or  hide  their 
pretty  faces  when  you  come  to  speak  to  them  ;  with 
age  they  too  acquire  a  greater  calm  and  courtesy. 
The  "  beauty  "  of  the  last  season  betrays  a  soft  and 
saddened  light  in  her  lustrous  eyes  with  the  advance 
or  years.  u  Roma  "  was  the  reigning  beauty  when 
first  I  came  to  Vescovana.  Oh  !  just  wasn't  she 
vain  and  fickle,  and  how  contemptuously  she  snorted 
when  we  gave  her  salt  !  Now  Roma  has  brought 
up  five  fair  daughters,  and  turns  to  welcome  me  as 


156  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

quietly  as  does  the  big  "  Magnifico."  M  Pistoja  " 
champed  up  Roma's  crown  of  roses,  and  this  year 
the  flowers  of  beauty  wreathe  "  Lottina's  "  brow. 

From  their  birth  down  to  their  death  these 
creatures  are  treated  with  kindness  and  considera- 
tion by  their  mistress,  who  never  wearies  of  seeing 
to  their  comfort.  When  they  are  three  weeks  old 
they  are  taken  from  their  mothers,  who  have  to 
return  to  work,  and  can  no  longer  nurse  them,  and 
they  are  put  into  one  of  the  "  schools."  Some  neat 
black  mountain  cows  of  staid  and  genteel  behaviour 
superintend  the  creche.  This  jeunesse  doree  of  Grom- 
boolia  has  a  very  fine  time  of  it  in  childhood,  sporting 
at  ease  in  the  broad  meadows,  with  the  willow  hedge 
allotted  to  its  use.  "  Let  them  enjoy  themselves  and 
romp  and  stretch — grow  tall  and  strong,"  says  their 
mistress.  "  There  will  be  time  enough  for  care  and 
work  later  on."  One  of  the  pleasing  spectacles  upon 
the  Doge's  Farm  is  that  of  the  inmates  in  a  pensionndt 
de  demoiselles  playing  about  and  kicking  up  their 
heels  at  sundown  before  they  are  sent  to  bed. 

At  the  age  of  three  the  young  people  are  "  brought 
out,"  and  this  is  no  less  an  occasion  in  that  line  of 
life  than  it  is  in  ours.  The  great  decision  has  then 
to  be  made  of  who  shall  be  coupled  with  whom,  and 
this  is  an  extremely  important  matter — much  more 
so  than  the  appointment  of  partners  in  a  ballroom, 
for  the  couples  now  chosen  will  work  together  for 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  157 

life.  No  single  piece  of  work  can  be  performed  by 
one  alone  ;  even  the  garden-roller  must  be  pulled  by 
a  pair.  One  would  be  absolutely  lost  without  the 
other.  Sometimes,  after  all  the  toil  of  selection,  it 
will  be  found  that  "  Olina,"  say,  refuses  to  pull  with 
"  Tennyson,"  and  all  the  trouble  begins  again.  Or, 
as  sometimes  happens,  the  one  dies  first,  or  a  change 
is  made  absolutely  necessary  on  a  farm.  Then  the 
big  beasts  become  moody  beyond  words  and  hair 
heart-broken.  It  would,  however,  be  exaggeration 
to  state  what  I  have  often  heard  reported  as  a  fact, 
that  these  Italian  cattle  die  upon  separation.  That 
would  be  a  very  rare  and  hardly  likely  occurrence, 
though  their  affections  are  undeniably  deep. 

No  artist  could  paint  on  canvas,  or  writer  tell  in 
prose,  the  charm  of  Italian  oxen,  nor  could  a  poet 
sing  the  beauty  of  their  eyes.  One  thing  is  certain  : 
the  plain  would  be  a  desert  without  them — a  heaven 
without  its  saints — a  meadow  void  of  flowers.  It  is 
a  grand  sight  to  see  them  adorned  in  all  their  best 
and  brought  out  for  show  to  visitors  at  Vescovana. 
On  certain  occasions  some  of  them  are  harnessed  to 
an  immense  van  painted  pale  blue,  like  a  bird's  egg, 
and  hung  with  crimson  cloth.  In  this  extraordinary 
erection  there  are  wooden  seats  on  which  the  privi- 
leged guests  may  sit  and  be  drawn  in  triumph 
through  Gromboolia,  all  heads  uncovering  before  the 
mighty  car  of  Juggernaut. 


158  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

It  is  a  most  cruel  thing  to  force  more  work  out  of 
these  patient  animals  than  natural  laws  have  proved 
to  be  good  for  them.  Because  of  their  immense  size, 
they  move  slowly,  and  easily  tire  during  the  heat  of 
the  day.  As  I  have  before  said,  eight  or  ten  oxen 
can  do  the  work  of  sixty  acres.  The  Pisani  farms 
have  most  of  them  about  a  hundred  and  twenty 
acres  of  ground,  so  there  are  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
oxen  on  each.  A  fourth  part  of  the  land  goes  to 
support  the  oxen,  who  are  fed  upon  lucerne  and 
clover  mixed  with  straw.  Green  grass  they  rarely, 
if  ever,  get,  yet  it  is  their  favourite  food.  They 
love  it  very  much,  and  the  eyes  of  the  most  modest 
ox  will  water  and  his  big  nose  tremble  when  a  bundle 
of  sweet  young  maize  stalks  is  brought  to  him  after 
his  hot  ploughing  in  the  fields.  Many  joyful  minutes 
did  I  spend  along  the  hedges  by  the  yard,  tearing  up 
those  much  desired  dainties,  and  bringing  them  into 
the  mangers  of  my  big  and  kindly  friends.  Such 
snorts,  such  muffled  cries  and  swishings  of  the  tails 
ran  down  the  length  of  a  whole  stable  when  I  entered 
with  the  cowboys  carrying  these  adored  but  little 
tasted  delicacies.  I  could  go  into  the  stalls  of  the 
strongest  bulls  and  oxen,  and  feed  them  with  my 
hands  to  see  that  justice  was  maintained  and  the 
grasses  duly  shared.  They  welcomed  me  with 
extreme  though  eager  kindness.  Their  manners 
were  as  excellent  as  those  of  modern  youth  are  often 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  159 

bad  at  the  pastry-cook's  or  dinner-table.  As  for  the 
Contessa — they  all  love  her  and  know  her.  They 
often  scream  with  joy  when  they  hear  her  footstep  in 
the  doorway. 

The  bulls  have  beautiful  brazen  coverings  to  their 
horns.  These  shine  in  the  light  when  they  are 
ploughing,  and  attract  all  eyes  to  admire  the  beauty 
and  grandeur  of  their  wearers.  Magnifico  is  the 
finest  bull  on  the  Pisani  estate,  and  indeed  he  is 
worthy  of  his  name.  He  lives  at  the  Carbonara  ; 
he  was  born  and  bred  in  the  property  ;  there  is  no 
bull  in  all  Gromboolia  like  him.  I  ceased  to  admire 
any  other  bull  to  the  Oracle  when  I  met  them  on 
our  wanderings,  for  they  never  combined  all  the 
beautiful  points  of  Magnifico.  His  head  is  huge ; 
he  has  a  fine  black  fringe  which  curls  upon  his 
kindly  brow  ;  his  horns  are  not  too  long  ;  there  is 
a  grey  tinge  like  shot  satin  on  his  coat,  and  when  he 
walks — well,  you  need  not  be  ashamed  of  crying 
out  in  wonder  at  his  stately  and  imperial  carriage. 
Pistoja,  the  beauty  of  the  last  season,  and  Plon  Plon, 
the  large  and  satisfactory  ox,  inhabit  the  same  stable 
as  Magnifico,  and  Elvira  is  the  daughter  of  its  cow- 
herd. I  always  connect  the  two  together — the  big 
Gromboolian  bull,  and  the  little  Gromboolian  girl. 

I  cannot  pass  Elvira  by,  nor  ever  forget  her. 
Some  day,  in  dreams,  I  shall  see  her  come  along 
some  shadowy  path,  bringing  the  sunlight  with  her, 


i6o 


DAYS   SPENT  ON 


and  hear  again  her  brown  feet  softly  pattering  along 
the  grasses  under  the  willow  or  the  chestnut  hedge, 
as  I  heard  them  when  she  came  to  meet  me   on 


WELL  AT  THE   PIOPPA. 


summer  days  through  the  thick  dust  and  the  evening 
glow.  Elvira  is  an  altogether  perfect  creation  ;  she 
is  so  fat,  so  round,  so  very  amiable — small  and  shining 
like  some  baby  buttercup.     There  is  no  fault  to  find 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  161 

in  all  her  little  form.  Her  dry,  brown  hair,  always 
dusty  at  the  tips,  is  bound  around  her  head  in  two 
tight  braids.  It  breaks  in  tiniest  curls  across  her 
low  and  sunburnt  forehead,  which  is  smooth  like 
chestnut  fruits  just  opened.  When  she  smiles  her 
teeth  are  like  seed-pearls.  There  is  a  little  hollow 
where  her  fat  neck  joins  her  pretty  shoulders.  She 
often  shrugs  her  shoulders  lightly,  as  though  to 
show  that  the  trials  of  life  are  very  tolerable.  Fine 
ladies  might  come  to  school  with  her  for  graces.  I 
do  not  know  why  Elvira  liked  me  first.  I  almost 
feared  it  was  the  silver  beasts  upon  my  chatelaine 
which  so  attracted  her,  or  the  portraits  of  familiar 
cocks  upon  my  fan.  She  had,  however,  no  taste  for 
finery,  and  when  we  walked  together,  hand  in  hand, 
we  regarded  each  other's  eyes.  Hers  were  large  and 
extremely  dark  and  grave,  but  all  the  sweets  of 
Gromboolia  had  entered  them  and  filled  them  with 
intelligence  and  brightness.  She  was  dressed  with 
simplicity,  and  an  extreme  neatness  was  always 
shown  in  her  attire,  which  consisted  of  a  tight 
bodice  laced  at  the  back,  a  chemise,  and  several 
cotton  petticoats.  She  used  to  stoop  and  pull  her 
short  skirt  very  decidedly  over  her  bare  ankles,  then 
curl  out  her  funny  toes,  and  pin  her  kerchief  with 
precision  across  her  neck.  Once  I  gave  her  a  gown. 
"  I  prefer  the  colour  red,"  she  said  distinctly.  I 
bought  it  at  the  Friday  fair,  and  carried  it  to  her  in 

ii 


162     DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

a  hurry  late  one  evening.  "  My  grandmother  must 
buy  me  the  lining,"  she  said  gravely.  Elvira  had 
only  smiled  on  six  short  summers,  and  I,  who  had 
known  twice  that  number  more,  had  forgotten  it.  I 
brought  her  a  little  bone  image  of  Saint  Anthony, 
which  she  pinned  to  her  bodice  by  a  bit  of  silk  and 
afterwards  lost.  "  You  should  have  hung  it  round 
your  neck,"  I  suggested.  "  That,"  she  answered, 
"  is  no  longer  our  fashion."  For  whole  days  she 
sought  among  the  sand-heaps  and  ploughed  fields 
for  her  lost  saint,  and  the  smile  was  lacking  in  her 
eyes.  Don  Antonio  sent  her  a  silver  medal,  but  she 
did  not  love  it.  One  day  she  found  Saint  Anthony, 
and  after  that  she  ignored  the  fashions. 

Two  weeks  ago  Elvira  sent  me  a  present  by  my 
father — a  little  bunch  of  double  daisies  and  Indian 
marigolds  done  up  in  a  bit  of  paper.  Not  all  the 
chrysanthemums  from  the  Doge's  Farm  could  please 
me  more  than  these  dwarf  blossoms  tended  and 
picked  in  the  heart  of  Gromboolia  by  that  little 
Gromboolian  girl. 


doge's  cap. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    GROMBOOLIAN    SERENADE 

I  HAVE  compared  the  Doge's  Farm  to  Tennyson's 
"  Palace  of  Art,"  but  unlike  the  "  Soul  "  in  that 
poem,  mine  found  small  joy  in  "  singing  my  songs 
alone."  Be  it  indeed  confessed  that  my  desires 
went  out  with  the 

"...  darkening  droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain." 

In  our  magnificent  but  solitary  drives  I  longingly 
looked  at  the  high  walls  round  the  villas  of  our 
unknown  neighbours,  and  knew  their  oleanders 
bloomed  not  a  whit  less  sweetly  than  did  those  upon 
my  balcony,  and  I  saw  that  their  strange  gigs  and 
conveyances  were  pulled  by  ponies  no   less  pretty 

than  the  one  I  drove. 

163 


164  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

The  vulgar  desire  of  a  tourist — the  feverish  wish 
to  know  about  things  and  people — had  even  tinged 
my  joys  with  minutes  of  discontent.  I  was  inwardly 
assured  that  Gromboolia  was  not  an  uncivilised  and 
barbarous  waste  outside  the  limits  of  the  Doge's 
Farm.  I  was  aware  that  it  had  its  society,  its 
fashions,  and  its  conversation.  Uninteresting  though 
the  bulk  of  these  might  possibly  prove  to  be,  I  still 
desired  to  turn  its  pages,  and  to  read  them  with  my 
own  inquiring  eyes.  This  desire  was  to  be  fully 
gratified. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  we  started  out  as  usual  to 
visit  farms.  As  we  approached  the  village  of  Stang- 
hella  a  clash  of  brazen  instruments  announced  the 
presence  of  a  band.  I  felt  greatly  excited.  Often 
as  we  had  passed  and  repassed  that  piazza  we  had 
never  heard  a  sound  like  this.  Stanghella  had  struck 
me  as  something  of  an  Egyptian  catacomb,  peopled 
with  handsome  mummies,  and  swathed  only  in  the 
melancholy  pealings  of  its  plane-trees.  To-day  there 
was  noise,  bustle,  and  a  crowd.  My  spirits  and 
those  of  my  Southern  friend  rose  to  the  novel 
sensation.  As  our  carriages  traversed  the  crowd,  the 
sindaco^  or  mayor,  of  Stanghella  stepped  forth  from 
the  steps  of  the  municipio  and  begged  the  Contessa 
to  grace  the  performance  of  their  new  musica  by 
her  presence.  She  consented.  In  the  late  evening 
we  returned  from  the  farms.     We  drew  up  before 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  165 

the  municipio,  and  alighted  on  the  steps  of  that 
mysterious  mansion  whose  grim  and  ugly  facade  had 
often  excited  my  curiosity.  We  marched  in  state 
up  the  echoing  stairs,  and  were  put  upon  seats  in  its 
huge  and  empty  hall.  We  were  horribly  select ;  we 
sat  on  tilting  chairs  beside  the  window — that  is  to 
say,  my  chair  tilted  in  my  eagerness  to  see.  We  were 
grouped  in  a  semicircle  ;  the  sindaco  and  his  wife, 
the  postmaster  (a  youth  of  great  elegance),  the  bailiff 
of  the  squire,  and  the  schoolmistress  formed  the 
audience.  It  was  an  extremely  hot  evening,  and  I 
for  one  felt  far  from  happy  put  up  there  to  public 
view,  with  my  admired  popolo  so  far  below  me.  I 
was  in  full  sympathy  with  the  young  lady  who  said 
that  she  "  hated  to  be  hulched  in  a  caroche."  I 
particularly  disliked  to  be  hulched  in  a  municipio. 
However,  the  first  step  into  Gromboolian  "society" 
had  been  taken. 

Below  us  there  were  all  the  inhabitants  of  the 
land,  crowding  round  a  raised  platform  where 
the  kunesse  doree  of  Stanghella  were  standing  and 
blowing  into  new  and  brazen  instruments.  That 
the  performance  was  crude  one  could  not  deny, 
but  that  the  energy  and  goodwill  bestowed  upon 
it  surmounted  its  failure  was  also  the  truth.  The 
musica  had  only  been  started  some  seven  months 
before,  and  already  twenty-eight  members  had  joined 
it,    and    succeeded    in    playing    in    concert.     They 


166  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

had  a  maestro  from  the  neighbouring  town  of 
Rovigo,  and  the  young  gentlemen  of  Stanghella 
encouraged  and  presided  over  them. 

"  Indeed  their  performance  is  admirable,"  I  volun- 
teered to  one  of  our  hosts. 

"Which  piece  in  the  programme  do  you  prefer, 
most  illustrious  young  lady  ? " 

"  Impossible  to  select,"  I  cried,  for  in  truth  I  had 
noted  an  extreme  similarity  in  the  pieces.  Then, 
anxious  to  suggest  the  right  thing,  I  inquired 
whether  they  perhaps  were  acquainted  with  the 
March  of  Garibaldi.  The  question  was  received 
with  a  strangely  suppressed  glee  by  the  circle  of 
the  select. 

Down  went  the  sindaco  into  the  square,  and  very 
soon  that  music  which  even  the  youths  of  Stanghella 
could  not  deprive  of  its  power  of  u  go  "  broke  forth, 
and  shook  down  the  bark  from  the  plane-trees. 
The  multitude  roared  "Bis,  bis!"  The  ice  was 
broken. 

The  following  day  the  brass  band  of  Stanghella 
sent  in  a  request  to  serenade  the  ladies  of  Vescovana. 
Vescovana  replied  that  the  proposal  was  accepted. 
The  date,  the  hour,  the  mode  of  arrival  and  of 
departure  were  elaborately  arranged.  Unluckily 
I  have  not  got  this  almost  legal  correspondence  in 
my  hands.  It  would  certainly  serve  to  shatter  every 
preconceived  notion  of  serenading.      For  a  Grom- 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  167 

boolian  serenade  is  not  at  all  the  romantic  moonlit 
affair  we  all  have  heard  or  made  for  ourselves  in  the 
mirage  of  our  minds.  It  is  extremely  well  arranged 
and  thought  about  by  unimpassioned  swains. 

Two  weeks  later  the  event  took  place.  As  the 
day  drew  near  an  immense  excitement  throbbed 
through  the  inhabitants  of  the  Doge's  Farm.  The 
servants  felt  that  the  right  thing  was  about  to  be 
done — that  social  amenities  were  to  be  received  and 
bestowed  between  themselves  and  their  neighbours. 
The  lower  rooms  were  filled  with  flowers,  and  carpets 
spread  on  the  steps  of  the  entrance  hall.  The  music- 
stands  were  placed  in  the  sweep  amongst  the  roses, 
and  at  6  p.m.  the  music  arrived — the  guests  at  the 
same  hour.  We  all  sat  down  in  great  stiffness  on 
chairs  on  the  steps.  We  were  again  most  select. 
There  were  Signor  Merlin  and  his  wife — tenant 
farmers  on  some  Pisani  estates  ;  the  president  of 
the  music,  his  baliff,  the  sindaco  and  his  wife,  and 
the  stationmaster  of  Stanghella. 

All  these  people  were  terribly  inquisitive.  "Why 
did  you  go  to  Rovigo  in  the  heat  of  the  day?" 
"Do  you  prefer  fish  to  beef?"  and  "Why  do  you 
come  to  this  country?"  &c. — were  the  sort  of 
questions  we  became  accustomed  to  hear  and  to 
answer. 

Into  the  midst  of  this  circle  strayed  two  English 
ladies,    bent    upon    a    Sunday    call.      They    were 


i68  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

members  of  a  party  of  artists  who  had  taken  up 
their  abode  at  Teolo  in  the  Euganeans  for  purpose 
of  painting.  It  was  a  remarkable  interruption,  and 
Gromboolia  was  gratified  by  the  unpremeditated 
compliment.  At  this  minute  the  music  struck  up 
— that  music  where  everything  seemed  trumpets. 
The  populace  of  Vescovana  crowded  itself  against 
the  gates. 

The  evening  was  extremely  sultry,  and  all  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun  fell  upon  our  uncovered 
heads.  The  stationmaster  held  a  flaring  red  parasol 
over  my  head  in  a  manner  to  obstruct  the  view 
of  the  orchestra  and  popolo,  and  to  concentrate  all 
the  sun's  rays  upon  the  back  of  my  neck.  Several 
presidents  and  conductors  of  the  music  joined  our 
circle.  At  intervals  everybody  ate  biscuits  and 
drank  black  coffee,  wine,  or  other  refreshments. 
It  is  certain  that  the  musical  side  of  the  serenade 
was  the  least  part  of  the  day's  doings  in  the  eyes 
of  the  audience,  and  I  may  almost  add  of  the 
performers.  During  the  longest  pause  in  the  pro- 
gramme the  whole  society  turned  into  the  garden 
and  wandered  through  the  labyrinths  of  Crispin 
de  Pass,  pausing  at  every  bower.  The  one  point 
in  this  garden  which  attracted  their  criticism  was 
the  sweet-pea  hedges.  "What!"  cried  the  bailiff 
of  innumerable  farms.  "  Uneatable  peas,  and  in 
such  abundance !  "     Then  all  the  gentlemen  bent  in 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  169 

amaze  over  such  marked  peculiarity  of  taste  on  the 
part  of  an  English  lady.  The  cultivation  of  un- 
eatable peas  was  a  folly  they  scarcely  could  credit. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  Contessa  gently  in  my 
ear,  "  a  year  hence  their  gardens  will  be  stocked  with 
the  same  flower."  She  has  already  -peopled  Grom- 
boolia  with  scarlet-runners. 

A  timorous  cornet  summoned  us  back  to  our 
serenade.  Unequal  valses  and  smooth  mazurkas 
were  diligently  rendered.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
performance  the  stationmaster  thought  fit  to  inquire 
of  me  what  were  my  political  views.  I  replied  in 
a  loud  and  cheerful  voice  that  I  knew  nothing  of 
politics,  but  in  sentiment  was  a  Republican.  This 
information  so  excited  the  stationmaster  that  he 
jumped  off  his  seat  and  almost  impaled  me  on  my 
own  parasol.  He  summoned  the  sindaco^  and  these 
two  gentlemen  became  entirely  purple  in  their 
attempts  to  disillusion  one  who  had  no  illusions. 
For  it  was  the  fire  which  the  youths  of  Stanghella 
had  put  into  their  brazen  instruments  when  they 
played  the  Garibaldi  March  which  had  excited  me 
to  the  above  speech.  I  had  feared  their  slim  forms 
would  burst,  and  that  the  maestro  would  fall  from 
his  tub  when  the  first  invigorating  bars  had  been 
commenced.  Also  the  populace  roared  their  delight 
outside  the  gates.  Gromboolians  had  received  fire 
into  their  souls,  and  imparted  it  to  mine. 


170  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

"Don't  talk  of  republics,  dearest  young  lady," 
panted  the  stationmaster :  '*  suggest  the  Marcia 
Reale." 

I  obeyed,  but  my  spirit  groaned  as  I  listened  to 
the  twaddling  and  uneventful  strains  of  that  royal 
anthem.  The  popolo,  too,  set  up  a  dismal  howl. 
Yet  I  protest  it  was  not  disloyalty,  but  pure  musical 
instinct  which  so  influenced  our  feelings. 

Towards  eight  the  company  broke  up,  leaving  us 
with  the  delightful  feeling  of  having  had  a  "  social 
success." 

That  was  the  last  I  heard  of  the  "  musica  di 
Stanghella,"  for  its  performances  are  extremely  rare. 
But  later  in  the  season  I  was  privileged  to  hear  a 
little  more  Gromboolian  music.  I  paid  a  visit  to  the 
hills,  and  returned  from  them  fired  with  enthusiasm 
for  the  songs  I  had  heard  sung  by  the  people  there, 
and  with  an  ambition  to  know  what  the  young 
men  of  the  plain  could  produce  in  the  same  line. 
A.,  out  of  some  novel  caprice,  favoured  the  plan, 
and  invited  the  youth  of  his  parish  to  come 
one  evening  into  the  barchesse  and  sing  to  us. 
They  came.  The  air  was  hot,  the  sky  was 
clouded  over  ;  it  had  rained  all  day.  The  young 
men  stood  in  the  shadow  under  the  jasmine  trees. 
Strange  howling  choruses  and  songs  suddenly 
broke  the  silence  of  the  night.  We  stood  in  the 
balcony  above  and  listened.     There  was  a  peculiar 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  171 

melancholy  scream  at  the  end  of  every  verse.  I  dare 
not  call  it  musical.  But  barbaric  dances  clash,  and 
yet  they  charm.  So  it  is  with  the  people's  songs. 
I  would  gladly  have  listened  to  those  wonderful 
strains  for  a  longer  period,  but  this  was  not  to 
be.  It  so  happened  that  an  upholsterer  from  Milan 
and  a  tinsmith  of  Venice  had  lately  arrived  on  the 
Doge's  Farm.  These  gentlemen,  being  themselves 
possessed  of  no  inconsiderable  musical  talent,  rushed 
out  upon  a  scene  where  they  would  be  enabled  to 
show  it  off  to  the  full.  Absolutely  regardless  of 
the  other  chorus,  they  began  a  rival  concert  under 
the  pomegranates  in  the  opposite  barchesse  ! 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  night  of  song  !  Its 
discords  and  discomfort  were  appalling. 

"  Teresina,  Teresina,  Teresina  !  "  thundered  the 
Gromboolians,  whilst  the  wailing  voice  of  the 
romantic  tinsmith  pierced  above  their  healthier 
choruses,  singing  the  death  of  an  enamoured  girl 
in  tones  which  told  himself  to  be  a  pilgrim  in  the 
paths  of  love. 

A  hot  rain  dropped  on  the  pergola.  The  lamp- 
light struggled  with  some  feeble  fire-flies  and  quite 
obscured  them,  even  as  the  tinsmith  finally  over- 
powered my  wild  Gromboolian  chorus. 


cardinal's  hat. 


CHAPTER   XI 

OLD    HOUSES    OF    GROMBOOLIA 

'  I  'HE  Stanghella  music  proved  itself  a  delightful 

*     introduction    to     Gromboolian     society,     and 

PI 
many  happy  afternoons   I   spent  in  visits   to   these 

neighbours.     Twice    we   went  to   tea   with    friends 

at  Stanghella,  who  own  a  beautiful  house  and  garden 

at  the  entrance  to  the  little  town.     The  garden  is 

cultivated  with  extreme   care  and  love,   and    from 

the  burning  heat  and  the  dusty  plain  it  was  pleasant 

to  enter  the  shady  paths,  to  sit  on  a  smooth,  green 

lawn   before  a  pile  of  ices,   or  run  a  race  in  small 

canoes   upon    the   little    sleepy   lakes.     Indeed   that 

garden  is  a  cool  oasis,  like  the  one  at  Vescovana. 

172 


DA  YS   SPENT  ON  A    DOGE'S  FARM     173 

But  both  are  exceptions  to  the  general  rule  of  villas 
in  Gromboolia  ;  and  it  is  often  sad  to  see  how  little 
property  is  respected  or  cared  for  nowadays  in 
out-of-the-way  corners  of  Italy.  Browning's  poem 
holds  good  ;  and  dear  to  the  heart  of  modern  Italian 
youth  are  the  sounds  of  the  piazza.  But  this  is  not 
all,  and  there  are  various  other  and  more  insur- 
mountable barriers  than  those  of  boredom  which 
drive  the  nobles  into  the  towns. 

Yet  the  ruins  of  greatness  are  there  still — buried 
out  there  in  the  country.  As  the  sphinxes  stand  by 
the  Nile,  so  the  gems  of  art  and  of  gardening  which 
once  were  the  pride  of  their  owners  now  fall  aside,  rot 
as  flowers  do  upon  their  stalks,  but  still  they  stand. 
Even  in  Gromboolia,  which  strikes  you  as  being  a  pure 
wilderness  of  wheat  and  maize,  you  need  not  go  far 
afield.  Oh,  yes,  you  will  easily  find  them  :  the  little 
old  villas  smothered  in  weeds,  or  baring  their  breasts 
to  the  winter  floods  and  mist.  Scrape  away  the 
grass  there  on  the  doorstep,  and  you  will  see  it  is 
carved  in  no  ordinary  stone,  but  from  a  block  of 
exquisite  marble.  And  the  glass  has  fallen  from  the 
window-frames,  but  the  ironwork  which  masked 
it  is  there  still,  strangely  and  marvellously  wrought, 
embossed  perhaps  with  beaten  roses,  fretted  with 
coats  of  arms.  Grain  and  straw  have  been  stored  in 
the  reception-rooms  :  they  have  scratched  the  faces 
of  Venetian  senators,  or  bruised  the  lovely  limbs  of 


174  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

Aphrodite.  But  enough  remains  of  these  ghost  fres- 
coes to  show  you  that  they  once  were  painted  in 
colours  bright  and  pure. 

Then  leave  the  house  and  push  through  the  rotten 
reed  fence  into  that  place  which  long  years  ago  they 
called  the  garden.  It  is  a  farmyard  now,  maybe,  but 
the  box  will  not  be  all  quite  dead  which  once  made 
alleys,  and  the  cupids  and  the  fauns  are  there  still, 
tumbled  over  without  their  pipes,  without  their 
arrows,  in  the  grass  where  poppies  and  salvias  wave 
above  them,  and  the  silly  hens  croon  lazily. 

Everything  after  all  is  here,  and  why  complain. 
For  which  of  us  would  change  this  desolation  full  of 
the  dreams  of  "dear  dead  women." 

When  the  present  Government  came  in,  property 
which  had  formerly  been  entailed,  and  therefore 
treated  with  love  and  veneration,  was  sold  out. 
Strangers  encamped  in  precious  villas  which  already 
the  finger  of  Decay  had  touched,  owing  to  the  wars 
and  the  consequent  poverty  of  their  owners.  The 
strangers  felt  no  pride  in  keeping  up  useless  if  lovely 
ruins.  So  long  as  the  walls  and  roof  were  firm  they 
were  contented.  Taxes  are  exorbitant.  The  land  in 
itself  proved  labour  and  expense  sufficient  for  them 
to  meet.  No  law  bound  a  hard-driven  tenant,  con- 
tentedly ignorant  of  the  "  Love  of  the  Beautiful," 
to  support  the  slender  columns  which  tottered  out- 
side his  door,  or  to  replace  a  marble  form  which 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  175 

only  adorned  and  did  not  fatten  his  garden  or  his 
vines. 

It  is  so  easy  for  the  passing  tourist  to  criticise  and 
to  lament.  I  myself  confess  to  harbouring  the  domi- 
neering spirit  of  a  crusader  in  search  of  holy  tombs 
when  out  in  Gromboolia  looking  for  her  treasure. 

One  morning  K.  and  I  drove  to  l'Albera,  a  small 
hamlet  lying  some  four  miles  from  Vescovana.  We 
had  been  advised  to  visit  this  place  in  order  to  behold 
the  only  tall  tree  of  all  Gromboolia.  We  went,  and 
found  the  phenomenon — a  tall  poplar  of  uncertain 
age  and  undeniable  beauty.  For  miles  one  sees  this 
tree  raising  its  head  above  the  fields  and  hedgerows. 
Certainly  it  was  a  splendid  creature,  and  its  thousands 
of  silver  leaves  shivered  in  the  warm  May  air.  But 
by  its  side  we  found  something  even  more  attractive 
— a  thing  which  nobody  had  ever  talked  about,  a 
buried  jewel  in  a  perfect  setting.  This  was  a  villa 
built  in  such  admirable  style  that  it  startled  eyes 
accustomed  to  the  interminable  monotony  of  rarms. 
The  villa,  as  we  afterwards  learnt,  belonged  to  the 
Manfredini,  agents  of  the  Este  family,  who  owned 
this  land  in  1300,  one  century  before  the  Pisanis 
purchased  theirs.  Lately  the  farming  of  it  passed 
into  the  hands  of  Marchese  Dolfin,  of  Rovigo.  The 
house  is  like  a  miniature  Venetian  palace  buried  in 
Gromboolia  instead  of  the  lagune.  Sumach-trees, 
cherries,  and  maize  smothered  its  marble  balustrades, 


176  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

and  swallows  had  built  above  its  windows  where  the 
Manfredini  lion  ramped  proudly  on,  regardless  of 
the  change  in  politics  and  life,  rusty  but  magnificent 
in  ironwork  (see  p.  127). 

Delighted  with  the  scene,  I  attempted  at  once  to 
sketch  it.  Then  the  tenant  farmer  lounged  out  and 
entered  into  conversation  with  K.  He  was  a  tall 
and  melancholy  man,  much  thinner  than  the  pointer 
dogs  who  followed  him,  and  sadder  still  if  that  were 
possible.  He  had  the  manners  of  a  misanthropic 
emperor.  Had  he  lived  in  the  days  of  Heliogabalus 
he  would  have  flourished.  I  felt  he  might  institute 
unhallowed  farces  at  nights  within  the  lonely  little 
villa  in  hopes  of  some  excitement,  and  then  feel  more 
weary  than  before.  He  waved  his  long  hands  sadly 
when  we  praised  his  dwelling.  He  took  us  in,  and 
up  the  exquisite  little  staircases,  all  finished  by  some 
delicately-minded  architect.  He  gave  us  odd  sweet 
wine  in  his  room,  where  Garibaldi's  portrait  hung 
alone  among  his  guns.  He  tapped  despairingly  the 
tattered  canvases  which  hung  upon  the  entrance 
walls,  treating  Zeus,  Juno,  and  the  other  gods  with 
sadness  and  contempt.  His  type  of  melancholy  is,  I 
fancy,  not  so  uncommon  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
live  with  ruined  beauty.  Yet  I  did  not  pity  the 
misanthrope  of  the  Manfredini  villa.  I  believe  him 
to  be  a  privileged  being,  and  in  his  own  way,  a  happy 
one. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM 


177 


Then  we  discovered  a  second  ruined  palace,  but 
one  which  was  quite  unlike  the  one  by  the  poplar- 
tree.  This  second  was  a  flourishing  farm — Grompa. 
The  fine  palazzo  shown  below  belonged  to  the 
Grompas  of  Padua,  who  kept  their  beautiful  country- 
house  in  excellent  condition  whilst  they  owned  it. 
The  last  of  the  family  was  a  general  in  the  Venetian 
Republic.     This    gentleman,   being    possessed   of  a 


GROMPA,    VILLA   ESTENSE. 


gambling  spirit,  soon  dispatched  his  estate  of 
Grompa,  and  sold  the  property  to  Princess  Gio- 
vanelli,  to  whom  it  now  belongs,  and  who  lets  it  to 
Signor  Marchiori  of  Lendinara.  Signor  Marchiori  is 
a  remarkable  man.  He  has  a  singular  love  for  his 
cattle  and  animals  of  every  description.  He  has  a 
beautiful  English  breed  of  pointers.  His  horses,  his 
fowls,  his  silkworms,  have  a  peculiar  healthy  happi- 


12 


178  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

ness  about  them,  and  as  for  the  cattle,  they  would 
need  a  better  description  than  I  can  give  them. 
Indeed  Grompa  was  an  ideal  farm.  There  seemed 
to  be  something  human  in  all  its  beasts,  and  the  two 
afternoons  we  spent  there  were  times  of  extreme 
satisfaction. 

The  Marchiori  breed  of  cattle  is  considered  the 
best  in  the  country.  It  is  called  "  Pugliesi,"  having 
been  brought  originally  from  Apulia  to  the  banks  or 
the  Po  by  members  of  the  Grimani  family,  and  now 
the  breed  is  preserved  at  Lendinara  by  the  Marchiori 
family.  Some  therefore  came  to  Grompa  with  one 
of  the  Marchiori  brothers.  There  were  seven 
brothers,  and  they  all  fought,  as  boys,  under  Gari- 
baldi. Our  friend  looks  as  though  he  had  done  that. 
He  is  magnificent  in  his  huge  felt  hat  and  velvet 
coat ;  tall  and  straight,  with  the  love  of  the  past  and 
the  love  of  his  land  filling  his  eyes  with  light.  He 
took  us  all  over  the  house,  which,  though  scarcely 
furnished,  and  used  partly  as  a  farm,  is  beautifully 
clean  and  tidy.  In  one  of  the  top  rooms  there  is  a 
fresco  showing  the  house  of  Grompa  as  it  formerly 
existed,  with  many  colonnades  and  nicely  planned 
parterres.  Most  of  these  things  have  fallen  away 
and  vanished.  Troops  of  ducks  and  hens  run  over 
the  once  cultivated  garden,  watch-dogs  stretch  where 
the  statues  stood,  and  vines  are  grown  where  once 
there  were  orange  and  fig  trees.     But  nothing  can 


PRIZE   OX   OF   SIGNOR   MARCHIORI   AT   GROMPA 


PRIZE   BULL  OF  SIGNOR   MARCHIORI  AT  GROMPA 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  179 

alter  the  view  of  the  plain  from  those  high  windows, 
or  check  the  swallows  and  warm  winds  which  play 
around  them. 

When  we  had  seen  the  house  we  went  into  the 
orchard,  and  there  the  young  calves  ran  to  meet  us 
when  we  called,  as  children  would,  kicking  up  their 
pretty  feet  and  whisking  with  their  tails.  Then  we 
entered  the  stables.  Yes,  they  were  beautiful,  the 
Pugliesi  cattle,  and  kind  too,  and  well  cared  for. 
There  was  the  prize  bull.  Such  a  bull !  It  was  not 
the  beauty  of  his  points — I  know  too  little  about 
them — but  his  delightful  character  which  charmed  me. 
When  his  master  spoke  to  him  from  the  doorway  he 
began  to  talk  and  rub  his  nose  along  the  manger  ;  his 
large  eyes  laughed  with  pleasure  when  the  hand  he 
loved  caressed  him. 

When  we  left  Grompa  Signor  Marchiori  took 
from  his  walls  the  only  portraits  he  possessed  of  his 
prize  cattle,  and  insisted,  with  typical  Italian  cour- 
tesy, on  his  unknown  guest  accepting  a  gift  which 
was  of  unique  value  to  him.  Now,  however,  I  am 
glad  to  have  accepted  what  in  truth  I  did  with  no 
small  sense  of  shame,  for  many  others  may  realise  the 
beauty  of  the  Pugliesi  cattle. 

One  day  Madame  Pisani  took  us  to  call  on  some 
of  her  tenant  farmers  at  Boara  Pisani,  which  is  a 
small  village  built  under  the  banks  of  the  Adige.  I 
was  very  glad  to  see  this  grand  Pisani  farm.    The 


180  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

house  is  long,  and  only  two  storeys  high.  Its  great 
beauty  consists  in  the  row  of  almost  colossal  columns 
— thirty  of  them — which,  rising  from  the  basement, 
support  the  barns  above  the  living  rooms,  and  are 
strangely  majestic  and  solemn  for  such  a  purpose. 
Indeed  I  imagine  that  only  in  Italy  would  splendours 
like  these  have  been  bestowed,  even  by  an  enthusiastic 
architect,  on  a  mere  farmhouse.  Outside  the  ar- 
cades there  is  an  orchard  of  cherry-trees.  A  troop 
of  indolent  peacocks  swept  about  beneath  their 
branches.  The  place  was  ill-kept,  ragged,  and 
romantic.  The  peacocks'  tails  supplied  the  only 
decorations  to  the  sitting-rooms,  and  in  the  top  bed- 
rooms turkeys  and  hens  reigned  supreme.  Yet 
nothing  could  alter  the  palatial  repose  of  the  great 
building.  Its  mistress,  Signora  Merlin,  manifested  a 
large  indifference  to  appearances  by  her  manner  and 
her  conversation.  She  was  much  too  fat  to  worry 
over  "  systems "  and  their  annoying  details,  and 
smiled  passively  upon  all  the  Contessa's  suggestions. 
We  sat  on  a  huge  divan,  all  three  in  a  row,  drinking 
iced  cherry  brandy  with  sponge  cake,  and  that  visit 
over,  we  proceeded  to  pay  another  to  the  old  mother 
of  Signora  Merlin,  who  lives  in  another  farmhouse 
at  Boara  Pisani,  and  simply  revels  in  "  systems." 
Indeed  Signora  Merlin  I.  is  a  very  remarkable  woman. 
No  one  should  leave  the  Doge's  Farm  without  paying 
her  a  visit.      She  is  colossal  in  build,  weighing   at 


A    DOGE'S  FARM 


181 


least  twenty  stone.  She  rarely  sits  still,  and  manages 
the  whole  of  a  large  property,  and  embarks  upon 
numerous  hazardous  law-suits,  quite  alone.  Her 
cattle  rival  the  cattle  of  the  Contessa,  but  the  two 
women  mutually  admire  each  other,  and  their  friendly 
rivalry  is  pleasant  to  behold. 


BARCHESSE,   BOARA  PISANI. 

This  spring  I  returned  to  Boara  Pisani  for  the 
purpose  of  drawing  its  colonnades.  All  the  peacocks 
had  left  the  barchesse  and  gone  out  under  the 
cherry-trees.  I  inquired  of  the  nearest  cowboy 
whether  they  could  be  induced  to  return  and  let  me 
take  their  portraits.     u  Draw  a  peacock  !  "    sniffed 


182    DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

the  cowboy,  with  contempt.  "  Ah,"  he  suddenly 
added,  "  there  is  a  beautiful  stuffed  one  in  the  house 
— newly  stuffed  at  Rovigo,  and  that  I  will  bring  to 
you."  He  bounded  off,  and  returned  in  triumph 
bearing  in  his  arms  the  stiff,  unnatural  bird,  which 
he  placed  in  my  foreground.  How  beautifully  did 
that  creature  rear  its  wired  head  !  I  sketched  it,  and 
returned  to  my  colonnades.  Suddenly  loud  piercing 
screams  of  fury  disturbed  the  general  peaceful  hum 
of  the  farm.  The  living  peacock  of  Boara  Pisani 
had  wearied  of  cherries,  and,  returning  to  the  bar- 
chesse,  espied  this  gorgeous  rival.  Instant  revenge 
arose  in  that  peacock's  heart,  and  with  a  fell  swoop 
upon  the  triumph  of  Rovigo  stuffing  he  tore  it  limb 
from  limb.  The  sensations  of  myself  and  the  cowboy 
may  be  imagined  when  the  owners  of  the  birds  came 
out  and  viewed  the  havoc. 


CHAPTER  XII 

FISHING    IN    GROMBOOLIA 

'  I  "HE  Gromboolian  fishing  season  begins  in  early 

*      June  after  the  first  hay  is  cut  and  the  banks  of 

the  canals  laid  bare.     On  the  day  of  the  first  fishing 

the  sky  was  of  a  pale  blue  colour.     Not  a  cloud,  and 

very  hot  and  still.     As  I  passed  through  the  gardens 

in  the  early  morning  the  magnolia-trees  sent  forth  a 

heavy  fragrance,  unrolling  their  big  buds  before  the 

risen  sun  ;  and  the  lilies  and  the  dying  roses  drooped 

as   the   dew    vanished   from  their    petals :    the   dew 

which  had  refreshed  them  in  the  hours   of  night. 

The  garden  is  about  fourteen  acres,  and  surrounded 

by  a  broad  ditch  or  canal — very  deep,  and  overgrown 

in  parts  by  tamarisk-trees.     Canals  like  these  form  a 

complicated  network  over  the  whole  country,  and  are 

the  only  safeguard  against  the  terrible  inundations 

which  threaten  this  low  land  in  autumn  and  in  spring . 

They  are  usually  kept   rather  bare,  but  this   one, 

running  round  a  private  garden,  is  peculiarly  green, 

183 


1 84 


DAYS  SPENT  ON 


and  shaded  by  vegetation.  Little  recked  that  calm 
canal  as  I  saw  it  then  what  would  be  its  appearance 
an  hour  later.     The  scene  was  in  all  ways  a  peaceful 


SCENE  OF  THE  FISHING. 


one.  Small,  tender  water- weeds  reared  their  heads 
amongst  the  lily  stalks  and  flags  ;  and  thin,  green 
shining  plants,  most    lovely  to  the  eye,  most  fatal 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  185 

probably  to  the  air,  caught  at  the  slanting  lights 
which  played  through  manna-ash,  acacia-hedge,  and 
tamarisk,  upon  the  quiet  moat.  These  waters  had 
not  been  disturbed  for  many  months,  and  underneath 
the  lilies  the  fish  had  grown  fat  and  sleepy.  This 
fact  the  fishermen  knew,  and  this  it  was  which  so 
delighted  them  and  all  the  household.  For  the 
general  excitement  was  great.  The  butler,  coach- 
man, and  the  head-gardener,  leaving  inferior  menials 
to  perform  their  morning's  work,  stood  amongst  the 
grasses  on  the  shore.  It  seemed  incredible  to  these 
gentlemen  that  a  "  Signorina  Inglese  "  should  enter- 
tain such  dangerous  and  low  desires  as  to  wish  to 
enter  the  boat.  "  Whatever  you  do,  don't  move," 
they  said  sternly,  as  they  put  me  in  the  "  barca  " — 
a  long,  flat-bottomed  thing  like  a  gondola,  without 
any  seat,  and  newly  adorned  with  a  heavy  coating  of 
pitch.  It  was  pretty  full  of  water,  left  there  for  the 
sake  of  the  fish  we  were  going  to  catch.  Three 
peasants  with  bare  legs  manned  it.  My  seat  was  on 
the  only  dry  ledge  in  the  whole  conveyance. 

We  pushed  off,  and  I  witnessed  a  different  mode  of 
catching  fish  to  any  I  had  before  conceived  of. 

Noise,  sunlight,  and  absolute  churning  up  of  the 
waters  formed  the  chief  features  of  the  sport.  A 
three-cornered  net,  about  four  feet  in  diameter,  was 
attached  by  a  wooden  pivot  to  a  long  pole,  and 
lowered  into  the  water  by  Tabarro,  the  head  fisher- 


1 86  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

man.  His  two  companions,  Warwar  and  Boreggio, 
had  then  to  push  our  boat,  with  as  much  dexterity 
and  speed  as  the  crazy  thing  would  permit  of, 
towards  the  bank  ;  attach  it  by  driving  their  oars 
or  poles  into  the  bottom  of  the  canal ;  then,  seizing 
other  poles  with  rounded  ends,  to  beat  and  agitate 
the  surrounding  water  with  all  possible  noise  and 
splashing.  After  the  first  experiment,  the  net  was 
elevated,  and  found  to  be  empty  ;  and  so  for  several 
times  in  succession.  The  spectators  had  climbed 
into  a  large  tamarisk-tree,  whence  thev  discharged  a 
shower  of  advice  to  the  fishermen,  which,  needless  to 
say,  was  ignored  by  these  gentlemen — kings  of  the 
hour.  After  several  fruitless  attempts  to  secure  the 
treasures  of  the  canal  in  the  manner  above  described, 
our  net  arose  from  a  bed  of  water-lilies,  and,  "  Oh," 
cried  the  occupants  of  the  tamarisk-tree,  "  an  eel,  an 
eel,  by  Bacchus  !  "  "  An  eel !  "  screamed  the  en- 
tranced head-gardener  ;  "  but,"  in  a  lower  voice, 
"  spare  my  nymphasas." 

It  was  a  magnificent  haul.  Two  mighty  eels, 
three  fatted  tench,  and  a  couple  of  luce  were  at 
once  secured  and  thrown  into  the  bottom  of  our 
boat.  I  cannot  say  that  I  shared  the  enthusiasm  for 
the  eels,  or  that  I  at  all  liked  them.  They  came 
writhing  along  about  our  feet — long  shining  things, 
green  like  the  weeds  which  had  sheltered  them.  But 
the  tench  were  beauties,  round  and  fat,  with  delight- 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  187 

ful  pearly  colours  and  flopping  fins.  Our  first 
success  was  followed  by  many  others,  and  as  soon  as 
we  had  induced  that  muddy  canal  to  disgorge  her 
living  treasures  in  sufficient  number  they  were 
gathered  together  and  shoved  into  a  great  dry 
watering-can.  The  net  was  freed  from  branches  and 
thorns,  and  its  holes  mended  with  string,  for  it  had 
been  rudely  handled,  what  with  the  banging  of  the 
sticks  and  the  shovelling  in  the  mud.  And  then  the 
banks  were  again  attacked.  Every  minute  the  heat 
increased.  One  almost  saw  the  wheat  and  Indian 
corn  growing  taller  in  the  neighbouring  fields.  In 
the  garden  at  our  backs  a  bird  would  break  forth 
at  times  in  passionate  song,  or  a  dragon-fly  meet, 
clashing  with  another  in  the  air.  Blue  damozels — 
so  blue  the  purest  cobalt  could  not  paint  them 
— stayed  quivering  on  some  tender  water-weed,  and 
the  feathery  fluff  of  tamarisk  seeds  floated  in  air 
above  the  water  and  caught  in  the  shore.  But  when 
we  came  dashing  forward  everything  fled,  and  the 
light  on  the  water  changed  to  murky,  almost  to 
crimson,  hues,  whilst  the  smell  of  decayed  vegetation 
was  anything  but  sweet,  increased  by  the  rays  of  the 
unclouded  sun.  At  last  we  found  that  this  sun  had 
climbed  too  high.  A  maid  came  by  with  a  basket 
to  carry  the  admired  eels  to  the  cook.  They  were 
stewed  in  wine,  and  we  ate  them  at  supper. 

That   was   the    fishing.     My    knowledge   of  the 


188    DAYS   SPENT  ON  A    DOGE'S  FARM 

sport  in  other  lands  is  slight.  I  have  lingered  for 
hours  along  a  glacier-stream,  dead  quiet  with  a  rod, 
and  held  a  line  in  the  soulless  Mediterranean  and  in 
the  Cornish  sea.  One  gurnard  and  a  sardine  form 
my  record  hitherto  ;  so  I  can  safely  recommend,  as 
far  as  results  go,  this  noisy  go-a-fishing  on  an  Italian 
plain,  where  in  thirty  minutes  about  two  dozen  large 
tench  and  eels  were  captured  with  all  the  excitement 
of  a  hunt,  and  amidst  the  beauties  of  the  "  waveless 
plain  of  Lombardy." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    FESTA    OF    S.    ANTONIO    AT    PADUA 

"  II  maravigliosa  vasello  dello  Spirito  Santo,  S.  Antonio  da 
Padova,  uno  dcgli  eletti  discepoli  e  compagno  di  San  Francesco 
il  quale  San  Francesco  chiamava  suo  vicario,  una  volta  predicava 
in  concistorio  dinanzi  al  papa  e  ai  cardinali.  ...  II  papa,  con- 
siderando  e  maravigliandosi  della  profondita  delle  sue  parole, 
disse  :  Veramente  costui  e  area  del  testamento  e  armario  della 
Scrittura  divina." — "  Fioretti  de  San  Francesco." 

/^N  June  13th  of  the  year  1231  a  boy  was  born 
^^^  in  Portugal.  Later  this  boy  became  a  monk, 
and  entered  the  Franciscan  order.  Once,  on  a  sea 
voyage,  the  ship  in  which  he  was  sailing  was  borne 
by  contrary  winds  upon  the  coasts  of  Italy.  Here 
the  boy,  who  was  in  fact  S.  Antonio,  landed, 
and  joined  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  who  was  then 
holding  the  first  general  chapter  of  his  order. 
After  that  time  S.  Antonio  worked,  together 
with  St.  Francis,  in  the  north  of  Italy.  The 
manner  in  which  his  name  is  still  worshipped 
forms  a  striking  instance  of  the  long-lived  gratitude 
amongst  the  poorer  classes.     He  lived  but  a  very 

189 


190  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

short  time  in  Padua,  where  he  faced  the  dreaded 
tyrant,  Eccelino  da  Romano.  His  life  on  earth  was 
short  indeed,  but  so  strong  was  his  influence,  so  firm 
his  faith,  and  beautiful  his  character  and  works,  that 
his  memory  is  yet  fresh  and  vivid  in  the  minds  of 
the  people.  It  has  been  handed  down  through  over 
six  hundred  years  from  father  to  son,  and  much  of 
the  present  fame  of  Padua  is  owing  to  the  presence 
in  it,  all  those  centuries  ago,  of  an  obscure  Portu- 
guese friar. 

In  what  light  and  lovely  language  has  the  bio- 
grapher of  S.  Francesco  told  of  the  doings  or 
Padua's  saint  in  his  "  Fioretti "  !  It  were  impos- 
sible to  re- tell  that  simple  but  altogether  fascinating 
tale  of  S.  Antonio  preaching  to  the  fishes  in  the  sea 
at  Rimini. 

S.  Antonio  died  in  his  thirty-seventh  year,  and 
a  short  while  afterwards  he  was  canonised,  and  the 
great  church  at  Padua  was  begun  and  dedicated  to 
the  new  saint. 

This  splendid  monument,  with  its  minarets  and 
domes,  which  inevitably  suggest  an  Eastern  city,  is 
familiar  to  most  travellers  in  Northern  Italy.  The 
angelic  babies,  worked  by  Donatello  in  bronze  panels 
around  its  high  altar,  the  patron  beasts  of  the  four 
evangelists  below  the  choir  wrought  by  the  same 
master,  and  many  gems  of  early  Paduan  painting 
and  sculpture  within  the  Santo,  draw  the  art  student 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  191 

and  the  tourist  hither  in  spring  and  autumn.  An 
endless  multitude  of  the  devout  press  daily  towards 
the  tomb  of  their  favourite  saint,  and,  kneeling 
beside  the  solid  marble  slab,  press  their  foreheads  or 
draw  their  hands  across  the  stone  which  covers  his 
remains,  and  which  is  said  to  possess  marvellous 
powers  of  healing  both  for  sorrows  and  disease. 

The  chapel  of  the  Santo  is  on  the  left  side  of  the 
church.  Scores  of  silver  lamps  hang  by  silver  chains 
from  its  ceiling.  Tall  silver  candlesticks  rise  up 
from  the  altar  steps  to  meet  them  ;  festoons  of  silver 
hearts  are  garlanded  above.  The  walls  are  covered 
with  marble  ;  big  jars  stand  full  of  lilies,  and  incense 
and  sweet  oil  burn  here  day  and  night.  There  is 
a  white  shimmer  and  a  fragrance  about  this  place 
which  is  very  beautiful  and  quiet.  The  walls  and 
steps  and  arches  are  covered  with  wonderful  carvings 
by  the  brothers  Lombardi.  Big  garlands  of  fruit 
and  flowers  surround  the  panels  in  low  relief,  repre- 
senting all  the  miracles  of  the  saint.  Here  is 
S.  Antonio  disclosing  the  whereabouts  of  a  miser's 
heart  :  "  His  heart  is  in  his  treasure  chest,"  said 
the  saint  in  one  of  the  legends,  and  there  the  rela- 
tions are  finding  it,  whilst  others  seek  it  in  vain  in 
the  side  of  the  dead  man.  And  there  the  sceptical 
soldier  has  cast  his  glass  cup  upon  a  stone  pavement, 
to  try  the  truth  of  the  monk's  words.  The  pave- 
ment is  cracked  open,  but  the  glass  remains  intact, 


192  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

and  the  young  man  looks  over  the  window-ledge 
amazed  but  believing. 

The  same  devotion  throbs  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people  in  our  nineteenth  century  as  throbbed  there 
six  hundred  years  ago.  Call  it  custom,  or  love  of  a 
crowd,  or  desire  to  sit  in  a  merry-go-round  as  you 
will,  this  fact  remains  that  as  day  dawns  on  the  13th 
of  June,  the  people  from  all  the  surrounding  country 
begin  to  move  towards  the  city  with  one  accord. 
Mountain  men  and  women,  too,  will  tramp  on  foot 
some  two  or  three  days'  journey,  walking  from  their 
shady  hills  in  the  heat  of  June  to  visit  the  city  upon 
the  plain  which  holds  the  tomb  of  their  saint.  The 
strange  costumes,  the  sunburnt,  eager  faces  of  these 
people  crowding  around  the  shrines  in  the  Duomo, 
falling  in  weary  attitudes  upon  the  altar  steps,  form 
perhaps  the  most  impressive  sight  on  this  remarkable 
day. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  real  joy  that  on  June 
13,  1892,  I,  too,  found  myself  upon  the  road  to 
Padua.  I  wrote  a  description  of  what  I  saw  at  the 
time  and  give  it  here. 

We  were  called  at  6.15,  and  opening  my  eyes  I 
saw  a  leaden  sky  outside  my  windows,  whilst  the 
general  stickiness  of  every  object  within  my  room 
made  me  aware  that  another  of  the  dog  days,  or 
Gromboolian  scirocco,  had  dawned  upon  us.  We 
breakfasted  and  drove  off  to  the  station  of  Stanghella 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  193 

— a  party  of  four.  My  friend  L.  had  come  up 
from  Florence  a  few  days  before  on  purpose  to 
perform  this  pilgrimage.  She  and  I  wore  large  sun 
hats  and  cotton  gowns,  but  our  chaperones  F.  and 
M.  shone  superior  in  Parisian  bonnets  and  most 
elegant  silk  cloaks.  Arrived  in  the  station  of  Stang- 
hella  we  found  a  great  crowd,  and  were  advised  by 
the  telegraphist,  the  stationmaster,  the  sindaco,  and 
other  gentlemen  who  had  won  our  friendship  by  a 
serenade  the  preceding  evening,  to  travel  to  Padua 
by  the  ordinary  omnibus  train,  and  let  the  specials 
go  by.  We  did  very  well  in  following  their  advice, 
as  the  u  specials  "  were  a  moving  mass  or  pilgrims, 
and  the  heat  was  great.  The  capo-stazione  told  us 
that  over  fifty  thousand  people  would  travel  into 
Padua  by  train  alone  this  day.  At  about  8.40  we 
got  into  our  train  and  started  towards  the  holy  city 
— for  as  such  I  shall  for  ever  retain  its  image  stamped 
upon  my  brain.  We  steamed  through  fields  where 
the  corn  stood  tall,  and  already  deeply  gilded,  then 
through  the  hills,  sleeping  in  dead  heat,  and  lastly 
into  Padua.  Our  train  was  an  omnibus  of  omni- 
buses, and  we  literally  dragged  across  the  sunny 
country.  Arrived  in  Padua  I  was  impressed  by 
the  sense  of  moving  humanity  in  a  manner  I  have 
never  before  and  may  never  again  experience — a 
variegated  throng  of  men,  women,  and  children 
passing   in  procession  through  the  narrow   streets. 

13 


t94  Days  spent  on 

Every  road  was  crowded,  and  as  for  a  cab  neither 
love  nor  money  could  procure  the  article  ;  but  we 
found  a  closed  trap  belonging  to  the  Stella  d'Oro, 
the  driver  of  which  volunteered  to  take  us  into 
the  city.  Through  the  dust  and  the  popolo  we 
accordingly  rattled.  Everything  and  everybody  was 
pressing  towards  the  church  of  the  Santo.  Horses, 
donkeys,  mules  in  hundreds  were  being  led  or  ridden 
or  driven  towards  the  "  Fiera,"  which  takes  place  a 
little  beyond  the  cathedral.  (A  fair  and  a  horse- 
market  are  held,  together  with  the  saint's  birthday.) 
It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  extraordinary 
multitude.  The  strange  thing  was  that  men,  beasts, 
and  carts,  though  hopelessly  intermingled,  maintained 
their  course  in  quiet  and  unexcited  deportment.  We 
deposited  our  wraps  at  the  inn  to  which  we  had  of 
necessity  been  brought,  and  I  could  not  help  remem- 
bering my  last  arrival  there  with  the  Teolian  clown 
and  the  apocalypse  horse ;  then  by  some  lucky  chance 
we  procured  a  cab  to  take  us  to  the  Santo. 

The  piazza  round  the  cathedral  was  crowded  with 
small  booths,  where  rosaries,  portraits  of  the  saints, 
lovely  marble  images,  and  every  sort  of  holy  ware 
was  to  be  purchased.  S.  Antonio  is  a  very  fasci- 
nating personality,  and  there  were  trays  and  baskets 
full  of  his  miniature  figure  carved  in  white  or  black 
bone  with  a  hole  through  the  headgear  for  a  ring — 
objects   which   even   a   bigoted   heretic   might   feel 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  195 

inclined  to  purchase  promptly.  I  connect  his  image 
with  the  brown  necks  of  small  Gromboolian  boys  and 
girls.  Tied  with  a  bit  ot  cord,  he  reposes  there 
throughout  their  childhood,  and  is  disclosed  even 
through  the  open  shirt  of  aged  cowherds,  or  of  sad 
and  withered  crones.  We  stayed  to  buy  some  of 
these  objects,  then  we  passed  into  the  church. 

The  first  impression  was  that  of  entering  a  Turkish 
bath.  The  winter  chill  of  that  great  mosque  had 
been  driven  up  into  its  topmost  cupolas.  One  knew 
somehow  that  a  chill  existed,  but  the  main  body  was 
bathed  in  the  breathings  of  a  million  people.  We  at 
once  pushed  into  the  thick  of  the  huge  throng,  and 
although  the  atmosphere  was  stifling  I  somehow 
found  it  strangely  congenial — fitted  to  all  the  sounds 
and  sights  around.  Hundreds  and  thousands  of 
men  and  women  here  were  gathered  together.  They 
knelt  in  corners,  they  stood  or  sat  on  wicker  chairs, 
they  moved  in  slow  procession  round  the  shrines. 
Strange  portraits  of  dead  men  slept  on  in  their  marble 
niches.  Large-eyed  madonnas  and  gilded  saints 
smiled  down  from  frescoed  walls.  Incense  poured 
out  from  the  immense  congregation  of  priests  in  the 
choir,  and  above  the  whole  there  rose  and  swelled  a 
mighty  music :  "  La  messa  cantata."  Here  were 
boys  wailing,  penetrating  voices,  men's  basses,  and 
the  pathetic  strains  of  violins  flooded  with  the  roll 
of  two  great  organs.     In  every  side  chapel  a  mass 


196  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

was  being  celebrated   at  the  same   moment   as   the 
high  mass. 

Never  have  I  seen  such  wealth  of  shining  silver, 
white  lilies,  embroidered  and  embossed  priests'  vest- 
ments, or  such  undeniable  devotion,  as  that  which 
filled  the  church  of  the  Santo  at  Padua  on  June  13, 
1892,  and  all  for  the  love  of  a  small  dead  man.  It 
is,  however,  impossible  to  convey  on  paper  the 
impression  left  upon  one  by  that  singular  scene. 

We  at  last  sat  down  at  the  back  of  the  high  altar 
and  listened  to  the  mass.  Then  we  went  on  again 
round  the  church.  I  had  never  been  in  a  crowd 
before,  but  was  now  to  experience  its  possibilities, 
for  I  somehow  got  caught  up  and  submerged  in  the 
main  current,  which  was  moving  the  round  of  the 
shrines.  I  was  entirely  lifted  off  my  feet  and  found 
myself  gently  but  surely  carried  forward  by  a  party 
of  the  hottest,  best-mannered,  and  most  curious  set 
of  mountaineers  it  has  ever  been  my  luck  to  meet. 
The  women  wore  brilliant  satin  stays  ;  great  garnets 
glistened  in  strings  upon  their  necks.  The  men's 
jackets  were  short  and  stiff — brown,  green,  and 
yellow  colours  set  off  their  splendid  sunburn.  I  was 
compelled  to  let  them  take  away  my  chair,  in  which 
I  had  got  hopelessly  entangled.  It  was  passed  over 
the  heads  of  the  crowd,  and  I  drifted  steadily  for- 
ward. 

At  last  I  rejoined  my  companions  in  an  open  space. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  197 

The  owners  of  Parisian  bonnets  had  had  enough  of 
such  experiences.  I  suppose  the  thermometer  might 
have  stood  at  9  8°  or  ioo°  Fahr.  I  do  not  know, 
nor  had  I  any  desire  to  calculate.  L.  and  I  left  our 
companions  at  a  side-door,  and  recommenced  our 
pilgrimage.  To  our  great  delight  we  encountered  a 
friend  in  the  crowd — Signor  Merlin.  "Che  occa- 
sioned' he  cried,  "  per  lei  "  ;  and  evidently  immensely 
pleased  himself,  he  took  us  under  his  care,  and 
behind  his  tall  form  we  walked  at  ease.  We  made 
the  entire  round  of  the  Santo,  stopping  to  see  the 
shrines,  and  even  passing  up  with  the  multitude  to 
the  tomb  of  the  saint,  to  draw  our  hands  along  the 
marble  slab  where  thousands  drew  theirs  for  a  blessing. 
Then  we  came  back  to  the  gates  of  the  choir.  The 
mass  had  just  then  ended.  We  waited  to  see  the 
bishop  and  his  priests  pass  into  the  sacristy.  The 
Bishop  of  Padua  is  tall  and  very  young  for  his 
position.  There  was  a  great  dignity  and  simplicity 
about  him.  The  tall,  white  mitres  of  his  companions 
formed  absolutely  perfect  pictures  against  the  wood- 
work and  stone  pillars. 

We  then  rejoined  the  Parisian  bonnets,  who  were 
sick  of  their  prolonged  devotions  and  rated  us 
soundly  for  our  lengthy  absence.  We  returned  to 
the  Stella  d'Oro  and  ordered  a  lunch  in  the  large 
cool  dining-room  ;  rice  and  Wiener  Schnitzel,  straw- 
berries and  beer.     The  meal  was  not  unpleasant,  but 


198  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

the  intense  heat  scarcely  produced  an  appetite, 
though  it  exacted  a  siesta  in  which  we  did  not 
hesitate  to  indulge  from  the  hours  of  one  to  three. 
After  that  we  once  more  started  forth  into  the 
Paduan  streets.  Of  course  we  went  to  the  Cafe 
Pedrocchi  and  drank  coffee,  and  stewed.  Pedrocchi 
was  about  as  crowded  as  the  Duomo,  only  here 
students  were  added  to  the  peasant  throng.  Also 
we  "  did  "  the  Salone  Municipiale  and  the  church  of 
Sta.  Giustina.  And  after  that  we  took  a  header  into 
the  fair. 

Here  were  merry-go-rounds  by  the  dozen,  shows, 
menageries,  booths,  and  horses.  In  fact  that  terrible 
thing — a  mass  of  mankind  paying  to  be  amused.  In 
their  midst  the  tall  white  poplar-trees  in  the  Pra 
della  Valle  rose  calm  against  a  cloudless  sky,  and 
grotesque  senators  and  prophets  gazed  into  the 
waters  at  their  feet  with  a  marble  indifference  to  the 
maddening  dust  and  hubbub  all  around  them. 

We,  too,  panted  for  one  instant's  shade,  one 
minute's  calm  repose.  And  this  was  found  at  once 
within  the  gates  of  those  famous  botanical  gardens — 
mother  of  every  botanical  garden  in  Europe.  Here 
under  huge  flowering  tulip-trees,  across  grass  paths, 
and  by  still  ponds  where  lotus  leaves  were  growing, 
we  wandered  for  some  happy  moments.  The  yellow 
Alpine  foxglove  was  growing  there  in  great  beauty, 
and   a  flaming   allspice,  which   I    have    never   seen 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  199 

before,  scented  the  whole  air  of  the  garden.  Above 
the  trees  rose  the  domes  of  the  Santo,  pearly  things 
against  a  faint  blue  sky.  I  think  the  ordinary  trees, 
the  flowers,  and  water  had  gained  for  me  nearly 
double  their  accustomed  sweetness  ;  but  there  was 
no  time  to  linger  in  their  midst.  We  hurried  back 
into  the  heart  of  the  fair,  and  soon  were  in  the  very 
thick  of  the  horse-market,  where,  surrounded  by 
galloping  steeds,  the  Parisian  bonnets  were  driven 
quite  distracted,  and  L.  and  I  snorted  with  delight. 
A  delicious  havoc  reigned  in  that  piazza.  Young 
horses  flew  round  and  round  in  narrow  circles, 
ridden  bare-backed  or  encouraged  by  the  bystanders  ; 
small  curricles  dashed  through  the  throng,  and  pro- 
miscuous groups  of  ponies  kicked  out  at  intervals  as 
their  companions  passed  them. 

We  walked  on  through  the  whole  fair.  The 
streets  of  Padua  were  transfigured  by  a  double  row 
of  booths.  Here  were  displayed,  and  here  we 
bought,  entrancing  objects  :  copper  pails  and  fans 
and  marble  fruits  which  imitate  to  marvellous  accu- 
racy their  juicy  prototypes  (fruits  which  my  aesthetic 
friends  have  scorned  upon  my  writing-table). 
Weighed  down  with  all  these  purchases,  and  con- 
scious of  further  fatigue  ahead,  some  members  of 
our  party  began  to  lag.  There  are  few  things 
more  fatiguing  than  the  sight  of  hundreds  of 
fatigued  people  at  the  end  of  a  long  day.     It  was 


200  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

with  immense  relief  that  we  again  found  ourselves 
in  the  Duomo  at  6.30,  took  seats,  sank  down  in 
them,  and  awaited  the  processione.  That  scene  is  the 
one  which  out  of  the  whole  day  I  remember  best,  so 
deeply  did  its  beauty  and  calm  impress  me.  It 
seemed  a  poem,  to  write  of  which  in  prose  were 
pity. 

The  thousands  now  were  ordered  out  in  rows  all 
up  the  body  of  the  church  from  the  west  doors  to 
the  steps  of  the  high  altar.  The  low  light  of  the 
setting  sun  streamed  in  upon  them,  gilding  with  its 
golden  rays  the  heads  of  kneeling  men  and  women. 
So  tired  were  these  people  that  they  fell  asleep  in 
groups,  leaning  one  against  the  other,  and  above  the 
sleepers  hundreds  of  others  dreamily  swung  their 
fans. 

Those  paper  fans  of  Padua !  never  shall  I  forget 
the  charm  of  them,  as  old  men  and  young,  women 
and  little  children,  swung  them  through  the  Santo  in 
the  calm  of  vespers. 

The  sun  went  down  behind  the  houses  out  in 
the  piazza,  and  one  young  man's  falsetto  voice  rose 
high  above  the  organs  and  the  choir.  Hundreds  of 
lights  shone  one  by  one  over  the  altar  and  down  the 
aisles. 

Then  the  procession  formed.  It  was  a  beautiful 
procession,  unlike  to  any  I  have  seen  before.  Each 
waxen    candle   was    bound   with    branches   of   real 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  201 

Madonna  lilies.  There  must  have  been  thousands 
of  the  glorious  shining  flowers  borne  round  the 
church  of  the  Santo  on  that  evening.  Small  children 
scattered  rose-leaves,  and  little  boys  staggered  under 
the  unbearable  weight  of  their  lily  stalks  as  they 
preceded  the  relic  of  the  saint,  his  face  set  in  the 
most  magnificent  jewels.  We  saw  the  diamonds 
round  the  jaw  glittering  in  the  candle-light  long 
before  the  relic  passed  us.  Indeed  it  was  the  most 
lustrous  point  visible  in  the  whole  great  crowded 
dome. 

The  procession  moved  round  the  church  and  out 
at  the  north  door  into  the  twilight  of  the  piazza. 
The  congregation  arose  from  dreams  and  followed  it. 

We,  too,  had  to  go.  It  was  eight  o'clock.  We 
drove  to  the  station  and  caught  the  last  train.  I 
think  we  were  tired.  We  sank  down  into  the 
heated  carriage,  and  were  carried  home  to  Vescovana 
across  a  black  and  sleepy  country,  lighted  faintly 
by  a  summer  sky.  There  was  a  mist  and  a  marvel 
of  fire-flies  over  the  corn-fields,  and  the  night  on 
those  broad  plains  seemed  wonderfully  full  of  rest. 


CHAPTER   XIV 


THE    HARVEST 


ON  the  19th  of  June  the  harvest  began.  The 
20th  or  25th  are  the  dates  usually  appointed, 
but  the  crops  were  ripe,  the  weather  fine.  I  think 
there  was  no  single  cloud  in  all  the  sky.  For  many 
days  there  had  been  a  hush — a  sort  of  feeling  of 
expectancy  through  all  the  country  which  was  golden 
as  the  sun  itself.  As  we  drove  into  the  fields  that 
first  morning  of  the  harvest  I  felt  but  a  slight 
difference  from  other  days,  yet  the  great  work  of 
the  Gromboolian  year  had  begun,  and  from  end  to 
end  of  the  vast  plain  small  sickles  were  changing  its 
entire  aspect. 

We  drove  into  the  property  and  found  the  men  at 
work  on  the  Dieci  farm.  They  begin  to  work  with 
the  dawn — at  three.  It  takes  thirty  men  to  cut  a 
field,  but  the  thirty  will  do  twelve  fields  in  a  day, 
which  means  about  fifteen  English  acres.  They 
work  in  a  long  and  slanting  line — young  men  and  old 
in  white  canvas  clothes,  with  here  and  there  a  blue 


DA  YS  SPENT  ON  A  DOGE'S  FARM    203 

shirt,  now  and  then  a  more  enormous  grey  felt  hat. 
Slowly  they  seem  to  go,  the  round  sickle  taking  the 
stalks  almost  tenderly,  and  leaving  the  cornflowers 
— intense  patches  of  blue — amongst  the  stubble. 
There  is  a  dead  stillness  about  the  country  and 
about  the  work.  You  could  scarcely  believe,  were 
you  not  informed  of  the  fact,  that  hundreds  of  men 
over  hundreds  of  miles  were  spending  more  bushels 
of  human  energy  in  this  season  than  they  would 
be  called  to  use  tor  the  rest  of  the  year.  Sitting 
in  some  low  ditch  or  uncut  field,  you  would  be 
puzzled  by  one  single  sound — a  long  low  cry,  as 
of  a  wailing  spirit  wandering  somewhere  in  an  im- 
mense and  melancholy  waste.  This  is  the  A  Basso, 
which  reminds  those  who  know  the  East  of  the 
muezzin,  or  call  to  prayer,  from  mosques  repeated 
through  the  day.  Hear  it  once,  see  where  it  comes 
from,  and  all  your  life  you  will  keep  that  saddening 
yet  charming  chord  of  Gromboolian  melody  within 
your  ear,  and  it  will  bring  back  to  your  mind  the 
scene  of  a  Lombard  harvest.  As  the  men  cut  they 
have  to  stop  at  intervals  to  make  a  knot  of  straw 
wherewith  at  a  later  hour  to  bind  the  stacks,  and  it 
is  the  voice  of  the  head  reaper  calling  for  this  pause 
which  makes  the  Gromboolian  muezzin.  All  the 
reapers  bend  a  little  lower,  then  stand  up  and  knot 
some  heads  of  corn  together,  then  go  on  again. 
A  long  low  line  of  golden  corn  half  laid  to  the 


204  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

ground  and  threaded  through  with  a  string  of  grey- 
blue  men.  Beyond,  in  an  infinite  perspective  of 
pollard  willow-trees,  of  Indian  corn  and  wheat, 
the  pale  and  slender  campaniles  of  a  distant  village 
rising  into  the  heated  air  like  dreams.  An  opal 
midday  light  bathing  the  whole. 

But  you  cannot  describe  in  solid  prose  the  absolute 
fulfilment  of  that  scene — the  entire  blending  of  the 
hues,  the  bath  of  sunshine  combined  with  deepest 
melancholy.  Words  and  additional  adjectives  are 
no  good  whatever.  Not  even  Millet  could  have 
put  the  thing  on  canvas.  Air,  sun-laden  air  with 
nothing  to  break  or  to  disturb  it,  and  a  land  where 
every  inch  is  known  to  be  cultivated  by  the  hand  of 
man,  lying  as  though  quite  undisturbed  in  the  cradle 
of  its  Creator. 

Only  the  wail  of  the  A  Basso  and  the  small  faint 
brush  of  the  sickle.  Sitting  in  the  quiet  loggia  of 
the  villa  during  the  hours  of  work,  rising  at  dawn  to 
peer  through  shuttered  windows,  I  have  heard  that 
cry  arise  from  all  the  country  round — from  near  the 
gates  to  far — oh,  far  beyond  the  banks  of  the  Adige. 
It  penetrates  above  the  song  of  birds,  the  buzz  of 
crickets,  or  the  rustling  wind,  and  tells  the  listener 
that  if  he  is  sitting  idle,  a  great  concourse  of  men 
is  working  there  unseen  amongst  the  fields. 

At  midday  there  is  a  pause.     At  three  they  begin 
again,  and  work  till  four,  then  on  again  till  seven. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  205 

In  the  afternoon  the  women  appear  upon  the 
scene,  which  at  once  becomes  more  varied  and  more 
lively.  These  ladies  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
reaping  or  the  stacking.  Their  main  object  is 
gleaning.  Gleaning  is  a  pure,  unmitigated  passion. 
It  is  in  the  heart  of  these  people — their  very  souls 
seem  bound  up  in  it.  Family  cares,  if  they  exist, 
are  forgotten.  Non-existent,  they  are  arranged  for 
during  the  courtship  which  the  occasion  makes 
possible. 

A  woman  can  glean  a  franc's  worth  of  corn  in  the 
day  if  she  works  hard  enough.  This  being  the 
season  of  courtship,  the  girl  who  has  gleaned  most 
during  the  period  is  the  most  admired  and  sought 
after  in  marriage.  She  hangs  all  her  gains  out  over 
her  window  or  upon  her  parents'  thatched  roof — each 
little  hut  is  covered  with  corn  during  this  season — 
and  thus  the  world  measures  her  worth.  I  must  add 
that  a  strong  voice  and  a  stalwart  ankle  are  also 
admired  in  the  stubble  field. 

There  is  a  peculiar  red  which  these  young  women 
know  how  to  wear — a  red  as  of  crushed  pome- 
granate seeds — a  harmony  of  yellow  and  of  crimson 
with  a  splash  of  blue.  They  use  it  for  their  aprons ; 
otherwise  a  happy  monotony  is  shown  in  their  attire. 
The  faultless  white  canvas  shirt,  slouched  a  little 
over  the  shoulders,  and  short  sleeve  open  wide  at 
the  elbow  ;  over  this  the  cotton  bodice  of  white,  or 


206  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

brown,  or  blue,  laced  at  the  back  and  gathered  tight 
above  the  breast,  giving  a  peculiarly  abundant  beauty 
to  the  figure  (and  I  must  note  that  the  more  these 
bodices  gape  at  the  back,  the  greater  the  fashion  of 
the  wearer).  Then  the  short  petticoat  of  thicker 
cotton,  nearly  always  a  dull  dark  blue,  and  the  bare 
brown  legs  and  feet.  A  flapping  Lombard  hat,  with 
a  new  ribbon  round  its  crown,  a  flower  in  their  hair, 
an  extra  dash  of  grease  upon  their  forelocks — nothing 
beyond  to  mark  the  height  of  the  "  season." 

You  will  see  these  daughters  of  the  soil — shoals  of 
them — apparently  crawling,  but  in  truth  tearing  along 
the  narrow  edge  of  grass  which  lines  the  road.  They 
are  empresses  for  the  time.  They  hold  themselves 
like  queens,  though  for  the  most  part  their  figures 
are  short  and  square.  They  press  against  the  gates 
and  hedges,  clamouring  for  the  rights  which  were 
accorded  to  them  from  the  time  of  Ruth  and  long 
before  her  epoch. 

It  is  the  men  who  do  all  the  hard  work  of  reaping 
and  stacking,  then  come  the  gleaners,  and  the  next 
day,  if  possible,  the  oxen  drag  the  plough.  Thus  in 
a  space  of  thirty-six  hours  a  waving  field  of  corn 
has  become  a  tumbled  heap  of  muddy  clods,  and  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  country  changed. 

Having  spoken  of  the  men  and  women,  I  must 
now  tell  of  the  oxen,  who  after  all  deserve  most 
praise.     Let  it  be  remembered  that  it  is  they  who 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  207 

yearly  turn  every  sod  in  the  Italian  plains  and  hills 
and  valley !  Those  calm  white  beasts,  with  eyes 
more  beautiful  than  the  eyes  of  women,  and  tempers 
which  never  ruffle !  All  through  the  hottest  season 
they  have  to  work.  In  winter,  if  their  owners  are 
poor,  they  often  starve,  and  in  the  Dog  Days  they 
must  pull  the  plough  through  soil  whose  richness  forms 
the  joy  of  its  owners,  and  therefore  their  despair. 

But  as  I  have  shown  in  another  chapter,  the  life  of 
oxen  on  the  Doge's  Farm  is  made  as  smooth  and 
bright  as  possible,  and  to  see  them  at  their  work  is 
a  pleasure  to  be  enjoyed  without  reservation.  After 
the  first  day  of  reaping  we  drove  out  to  see  the  first 
field  ploughed.  Long  low  shadows  lay  over  the 
stubble  from  the  willow-trees  to  the  west.  But  in  a 
belt  of  sunlight  the  oxen  moved  along,  a  team  of 
eight — four  on  the  stubble,  four  in  the  sods — pulling 
the  plough  through  a  depth  of  thirty  centimetres. 
One  man  held  the  plough,  another  walked  at  the 
heads  of  the  first  couple,  and  a  small  boy  with  a  long 
willow  wand  patronised  the  entire  team  :  "  Hoa 
Petrarca,  Ai  Magnifico,  Stai  Plon  Plon."  In  answer 
to  which  familiar  names  the  great  creatures  would 
slightly  move  their  heads,  then  lumber  on — dread- 
fully slow,  absolutely  calm,  and  dignified  beyond 
description. 

I  am  sure  they  knew  it,  those  milk-white  beasts, 
how  deeply  the  soil  required  their  labour.     Shaking 


208    DA  YS   SPENT   ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

and  lifting  their  delicate  necks  beneath  the  yoke,  the 
"  dinanzi "  go — always  the  elegant  ones  in  front,  the 
young  ladies  just  come  out.  Then  the  "squinzaglio" 
— those  more  accustomed  to  the  plough — followed  by 
the  "sottopeso" — usually  a  couple  of  the  elder  oxen, 
and  lastly  the  bull  and  his  fellow,  "II  Timon." 

To  fully  realise  the  splendour  of  any  cattle  you 
should  see  a  Gromboolian  bull  moving  in  front  of  the 
plough.  He  gives  you  to  understand  that  it  is  no 
sort  of  trouble  for  him,  but  only  a  great  condescension 
for  his  broad  hoofs  and  mighty  flanks  to  move  across 
the  sods.  He  is  always  adorned  by  metal  coverings 
to  his  horns,  which  shine  like  burnished  silver,  and 
he  is  massive  and  regal  in  appearance. 

This  party  of  eight  go  up  and  down  the  field 
which  so  few  hours  before  was  a  land  of  waving  corn. 
By  night  you  will  not  recognise  the  place,  and  the 
young  moon  will  see  dull  patches  of  earth  where  her 
mother  had  so  lately  smiled  on  shining  crops.  The 
same  crop  will  be  sown  in  the  same  field  next  year, 
and  indeed  for  four  years  in  succession.  At  this 
fact  the  British  farmer  may  well  open  his  mouth  in 
horror.  The  soil  goes  to  a  depth  of  forty  to  fifty 
centimetres,  when  it  usually  becomes  a  swamp. 
Nature's  hands  have  formed  it  more  than  men's 
labour.  It  looks  like  clay,  but  is  in  fact  composed 
of  the  silting  up  of  rivers,  the  beds  of  time-old  lakes, 
and  the  century-long  droppings  of  a  marshy  vegetation. 


CHAPTER   XV 


GLEANING 


/^  LEANING,  as  I  have  already  stated,  is  the 
^-^  people's  passion.  When  the  corn  is  stacked 
(and  it  appears  to  me  that  it  is  the  interest  of  the 
reapers  to  leave  a  considerable  amount  upon  the 
ground  for  the  sake  of  their  wives  and  daughters, 
their  lovers  or  acquaintance)  the  news  is  spread  that  in 
that  field  there  will  be  gleaning  at  such  and  such  an 
hour.  If  the  property  is  large  the  crowd  which  gathers 
outside  its  gates  will  be  proportionately  big,  and  not 
only  the  women  of  the  country,  but  also  their  rivals 
from  the  neighbouring  villages,  will  put  in  appear- 
ance. I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  tone  of  mingled 
scorn  and  pride  with  which  a  small  girl  answered  my 
inquiries  about  a  band  of  remarkably  charming  young 
women  who  were  evidently  not  of  her  company. 
"  Those  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  shrug  ;  "  oh,  they 
come  from  a  great  distance.  They  are  forestieri." 
w  And  where    do    they    come    from  ?  "       "  From 

14  209 


210  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

Granze,"  was  the  answer — a  hamlet  lying  one  mile 
from  Vescovana. 

Sunday  is  the  day  on  which  to  see  the  gleaning  to 
advantage;  for  then  the  men  join  too  in  the  pas- 
time, or  at  least  come  and  look  on  at  it,  and  there  is 
a  general  feeling  of  bacchanalian  carouse  in  the  stubble 
field. 

One  Sunday  evening  we  returned  late  from  our 
drive  about  the  estate.  It  was  eight  o'clock.  The 
sun  was  touching  the  horizon  and  casting  back  long 
shafts  of  golden  light  such  as  I  have  attempted  to 
describe  elsewhere.  The  gold  dust  rose  above  the 
crowd  which  awaited  our  arrival  outside  the  gates  of 
the  "  Dodici,"  of  whose  owner  it  is  the  somewhat 
tyrannical  practice  to  control  the  hours  of  gleaning  to 
suit  the  pleasures  of  herself  and  of  her  guests.  We 
will  hope  that  the  waiting  adds  to  the  fun.  Anyhow 
I  was  the  favoured  mortal  on  this  occasion  for  whom 
some  eight  hundred  busy  people  had  been  kept  waiting 
through  a  tedious  summer  afternoon.  Gromboolians 
have  long  powers  of  endurance,otherwise  I  should  have 
felt  even  more  humiliated  by  the  situation  than  I  did. 
For  a  "Signorina  Inglese,"  whose  driving  powers  are 
not  exactly  satisfactory  in  her  own  eyes,  whose  com- 
panion, the  head  coachman,  desires  her  to  show  both 
himself,  herself,  and  the  horse  to  advantage,  whilst 
leading  the  way  across  a  stubble  field  before  an 
impatient  throng  of  critical  natives,  is  not  altogether 


A   DOGE'S  FARM 


211 


a  person  to  be  envied.     She  must  hear  it  discussed 
not  only  why  she  is  interested  in  their  affairs,  or  if  she 


BARCHESSE,   VESCOVANA. 


can  manage  her  horse,  but  also  whether  her  nose  be 
long  or  short,  her  looks  good  or  ill.     She  must,  in 


212  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

fact,  be  considered  as  the  puppet  which  her  whole 
British  nature  recoils  from,  because  her  distinguished 
foreign  predecessors  have  been  this  before  her. 
There  is  something  to  be  said  for  the  fact  that 
our  race  is  termed  "  matta  "  in  Italy.  Madness 
may  cover  a  multitude  of  innocent  offences,  and 
under  cover  of  it  I  indulged  my  harmless  desires, 
such  as  myself  joining  the  gleaners  and  conversing 
with  them  freely. 

The  procession  moved  forward  :  the  Calais-Douvre 
in  front,  the  gig  following,  the  multitude  behind,  a 
large  greyhound  and  several  sheep-dogs  barking  in 
the  rear ;  whilst  the  bailiffs  walked  in  front,  bearing, 
with  a  sort  of  potential  air,  their  big  clubs — signs  of 
superior  social  standing. 

The  corn  is  piled  in  stacks  of  sixteen  bundles  in 
a  line  all  up  the  centre  of  the  field.  The  effect  pro- 
duced is  like  that  of  a  yellow  lake  with  a  line  of  big 
ships  sailing  down  it.  Round  its  shores  in  crowded 
lines  the  gleaners  stood.  There  was  a  dead  hush. 
The  golden  light  lingered  about  their  heads  and 
yellowed  all  their  shirts,  then  caught  the  willow-trees, 
and  lighted  on  the  piles  of  corn.  But  at  their  feet 
the  shadows  grew  to  blackness. 

Then  the  word  was  given. 

There  was  a  rush,  a  stampede  as  of  cavalry,  and 
the  surface  of  that  yellow  lake  was  ruffled  over  with 
a  tempest  of  brown  feet ;  brown  arms  caught  up  the 


*3t  i    v  *  i 


ft      ~~ 


%^§£3$? 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  213 

golden  straw,  piling  it  in  bundles.  Up  flew  the  dust 
over  those  hundreds  of  brown  heads.  All  backs 
were  bent,  and  gradually  submerged  in  piles  of 
straw. 

From  the  box  or  my  gig  I  looked  down  over 
some  eighty  acres  of  stubble,  absolutely  alive  with 
flapping  hats,  white  shirts,  and  bare  brown  arms. 

The  air  was  electric  ;  the  sun  had  set,  but  some 
reflected  light  came  back  to  gild  the  top  of  every 
object.  Infected  with  the  general  spirit,  I  plunged 
amongst  the  gleaners  and  found  myself  clawing  along 
the  ground  in  company  with  the  sexton. 

Night  darkened  over  this  strange  scene,  and  a 
red  light  flushed  the  western  heavens.  That  night 
we  read  the  Book  or  Ruth  together,  instead  of 
stealing  out  upon  the  balcony.  More  than  three 
thousand  years  ago  that  tale  of  harvest  had  been 
told,  in  language  wonderfully  clear  and  pure  and 
simple,  of  the  young  Jewish  woman  who  gleaned 
among  the  stubble.  Strangely  the  story  thrilled 
us,  for  it  seemed  the  world  was  just  as  young  to- 
day as  then,  and  Ruth  might  still  go  gleaning  after 
the  reapers  in  the  fields  of  Boaz. 

Another  night  there  was  a  fire  on  the  estate.  I 
find  a  full  description  of  it  in  one  of  my  letters  from 
which  I  now  quote.  A  Gromboolian  fire  was  in- 
teresting, and  rather  dramatic. 

"  We  settled  down  to  dinner  at  about  nine.     It 


214  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

was  a  dead  hot  evening.  Suddenly  a  murmur  arose 
and  swelled  through  the  house,  and  Morato  rushed 
in  with  the  news  that  one  of  the  farms  was  on  fire — 
might  the  bells  be  rung  ?  We  ran  up  to  the  top  or 
the  house,  and  in  the  quiet  evening  light  we  saw  a 
red  glare  arise  towards  the  Adige.  The  general 
excitement  was  tremendous  :  the  church  bells  began 
to  be  hammered  on  in  a  peculiarly  horrid  manner ; 
the  butler  petitioned  to  go  with  the  pumps  ;  the 
cook  finished  serving  the  dinner;  A.  scolded  and 
flopped  his  sleeves,  and  soon  every  one  was  ofF,  and 
Madame  Pisani  and  I  packed  into  the  closed  carriage, 
still  heavy  with  midday  heat,  and  crowded  with  gutta- 
percha pails.  As  we  shut  the  window  I  saw  the  young 
moon  through  its  glass.  The  horses  tore  off  and 
arrived  near  the  scene  of  the  disaster.  There  was  a 
considerable  crowd  of  people — all  the  Contessa's  men 
and  bailiffs  with  crowds  of  gleaners.  No  one  was 
doing  anything.  Morato  had  brought  the  wrong 
screw  for  the  pumps,  and  the  pumps  were  being  pulled 
at  a  leisurely  pace  by  a  pair  of  oxen.  The  sparks 
flew  in  cascades  from  the  burning  house,  all  around 
was  dead  still,  the  earth  black  and  the  sky  pale  lemon 
in  the  west.  Morato  went  back  for  the  screw  ;  we 
waited  and  heard  the  dismal  tale.  The  house  was 
let  by  Madame  Pisani  to  a  carter,  who,  against  her 
advice,  had  admitted  some  families  for  the  gleaning 
season.     One  of  these  was  composed  of  three  small 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  215 

children  (the  youngest  only  three  months).  The 
mother,  in  her  gleaner's  madness,  had  locked  them 
into  an  upper  room  together  with  all  her  gleanings, 
and  gone  off  herself  to  the  fields.  In  that  room  the 
fire  naturally  broke  out,  but  luckily  a  young  man 
passing  by  saw  the  smoke  and  was  able  to  climb 
into  the  room  and  rescue  the  half-suffocated  children. 
When  the  proper  screw  at  length  arrived  the 
pump  was  put  into  the  ditch  and  began  to  work. 
Then  the  Contessa  descended  from  her  barouche,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  the  extraordinary  scene  which 
ensued.  With  her  gorgeous  evening  dress  held 
up  over  a  yet  more  gorgeous  petticoat  she  swept 
into  the  crowd  and  addressed  it  collectively  and 
individually.  There  was  certainly  a  fecklessness  of 
purpose  about  the  proceedings,  and  the  bailiffs  issued 
orders  which  they  should  themselves  have  performed. 
She  denounced  the  men,  and  threatening  them  with  a 
lengthy  ladder  which  she  tore  from  a  neighbouring 
tree,  commanded  them  to  work,  with  the  result  that 
one  youth  more  desperate  and  anxious  to  please  than 
the  rest  jumped  into  the  centre  of  the  burning  house 
with  the  hose,  and  Madame  Pisani  scrambled  after 
him,  passionately  rebuking  him  for  his  folly.  She 
then  manipulated  the  syringe  herself  with  about 
twenty  of  the  natives  holding  up  the  hose  behind, 
the  sparks  flying  all  around,  beams  falling,  and 
a   general   scene    of  glare,    confusion,   pumps,   and 


216     DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

people  in  the  midst  of  the  most  wonderfully  lovely 
and  restful  midsummer  night  that  I  (alas  !  an  '  Un- 
employed ')  have  ever  known.  All  around  the 
millions  of  frogs  sang  on,  their  monotonous  guttural 
voices  mixing  strangely  with  the  discordant  sounds 
of  man.  And  above  there  was  such  a  heaven  of  quiet 
and  indifferent  stars ! 

We  were  not  home  till  near  upon  eleven,  but  we 
left  the  thing  pretty  well  extinct — everything  burnt 
save  four  bare  walls. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THRESHING 


A  SLIGHT  pause  followed  upon  the  fury  of 
"**•  reaping  and  gleaning  :  then  came  the  thresh- 
ing, which  last  was  the  cause  of  indescribable  excite- 
ment and  concern  in  Gromboolia.  The  threshing- 
machines  have  their  winter  quarters  under  the 
arcades  of  the  Doge's  Farm.  There  the  unwieldy 
beasts  may  be  said  to  hybernate  during  eleven 
months  of  the  year.  At  the  end  of  June,  when 
every  crop  has  been  laid  low,  they  are  brought  out 
and  dragged  across  country  to  perform  their  im- 
portant offices. 

An  imperial  triumph — an  entry  of  the  Caesars  into 
Rome — could  scarcely  have  excited  more  propor- 
tionate attention  than  that  of  the  arrival  of  "La 
Macchina"  at  a  farm  in  Gromboolia.  The  farm 
had  been  duly  arranged  and  prepared.  Its  inhabi- 
tants had  a  sense  that  the  dignity  and  importance  of 
events  about  to  be  performed  on  its  premises  was 
such  that  they  must  put  on  their  best  clothes  and 


217 


218  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

display  their  finest  copper.  The  threshing-floor  was 
weeded,  scraped,  and  re-scraped  ;  the  sacks  laid  out 
in  order  ;  lions  rampant  and  ducal  coronets  put  to 
the  front. 

There  are  two  machines  on  the  Doge's  Farm. 
The  one  of  latest  date  is  the  admiration  and  envy  of 
the  whole  Gromboolian  universe,  and  the  great  black 
monster  is  undeniably  an  impressive  sight.  He 
needs  at  least  twelve  oxen  to  draw  him.  Each 
machine  has  his  keeper  and  his  groom.  It  were 
impossible  to  overestimate  the  importance  of  these 
gentlemen  who  appear  upon  the  scenes  for  one  week 
out  of  the  fifty-six,  and  during  that  period  boss  the 
entire  show.  The  keepers  are  men  of  education 
and  intellect,  and  one  of  them — a  Venetian — adds  to 
these  other  charms  beauty  and  a  great  conceit.  It 
is  their  office  to  see  that  their  machines  are  in  good 
working  order,  and  well  greased  by  their  grooms. 
Beyond  this  they  are  careful  to  perform  no  work  or 
any  sort.  I  formed  their  acquaintance  and  found 
their  conversation  polished  and  delightful.  The 
beautiful  Venetian  first  mounted  me  upon  his  charge 
and  then  exposed  to  me  all  the  details  of  her  entrails, 
stroking  her  iron  flanks  as  though  she  were  some 
beast  of  breeding  and  great  beauty.  "  Roostun — 
propria  Roostun — roba  inglese,"  he  announced,  with 
vast  complacency.  Mr.  Ruston  ought  to  visit  Grom- 
boolia  ;  he  would  meet  with  a  royal  reception. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  219 

We  drove  out  late  one  evening  to  witness  the 
arrival  of  the  threshing-machine  at  the  Pioppa,  which 
was  the  first  farm  where  it  was  to  work.  For  many 
weeks  there  had  been  a  stir  and  a  clash  of  iron  and 
shuffling  of  tarpaulin  under  the  barchesse.  On  the 
30th  of  June  the  hybernators  were  to  see  light. 
The  scene  was  impressive.  We  took  our  stand 
at  the  gates  of  the  Pioppa.  After  some  waiting  a 
rumbling  noise  as  of  distant  thunder  announced  the 
approach  of  Leviathan.  Our  beautiful  white  friends 
then  appeared  in  the  lane,  waving  the  red  tassels 
from  off  their  spreading  horns.  Behind  them 
trundled  pompously  the  unwieldy  monster  who  was 
to  swallow  up  the  fruits  of  all  their  months  of  labour. 
The  oxen  knew  exactly  what  they  were  about,  and 
how  dignified  and  superior  they  looked  and  how 
it  was  their  beautiful  big  eyes  which  fascinated  us, 
and  not  the  smoky  funnel  which  they  dragged. 
The  procession  moved  into  the  property,  and  the 
next  morning  at  daybreak  the  work  of  threshing 
began. 

Leviathan  had  long  hours  of  work — "  from  dawn 
to  dewy  eve "  he  laboured.  The  natives  have 
surmounted  their  first  prejudice  of  his  claws,  and 
flock  most  gladly  round  his  flanks,  stuffing  his  never- 
satiated  mouth  with  the  golden  sheaves.  The 
women  scrape  the  chafF  on  to  low  stretchers,  which 
small  boys  carry,  running  to  the  barn  doors  on  bare 


220  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

feet.  The  young  men  make  long  pyramids  of 
straw,  which  they  impale  on  endless  poles  and  carry 
above  their  heads  in  triumph  to  swell  the  stacks  the 
older  men  are  building  in  acacia  groves. 

It  is  then  that  Gromboolians  sing.  It  is  not  love 
songs  which  their  minds  create,  but  an  impassioned 
praise  of  their  own  powers  in  stacking  and  impaling 
straw.  I  tried  to  secure  the  words  on  paper,  but 
they  were  fleeting,  and  the  threads  of  those  rambling 
odes  were  not  lightly  to  be  wound  by  my  unedu- 
cated fingers. 

There  is  a  buzz,  a  throb,  a  sense  of  concentrated 
life  and  animation  during  the  work  hours  of  Levia- 
than. Every  day  we  visited  those  farms  where  he 
was  working.  We  sat  on  chairs  outside  the  farm 
door,  in  the  intensest  heat.  We  became  half  hypno- 
tised— fascinated  by  the  spectacle  of  so  much  life 
and  labour  in  one  single  corner  of  the  plain. 

A  sea  of  golden  grain  ;  a  throng  of  brown  arms 
and  legs  and  canvas  shirts  moving  amongst  the 
waves  of  yellow  straw,  and  lines  of  bulging  sacks. 
A  whirr  of  leather  straps,  a  panting  fire-engine,  a 
rush  of  sheaves,  and  above,  for  miles  in  the  quiet 
sky,  the  floating  away  of  chaff  and  thistle-down. 

The  machines  travelled  from  one  farm  to  another 
in  a  very  short  space  of  time,  considering  the  hercu- 
lean labours  they  performed.  When  they  left  the 
grain  was  gathered  into  sacks,  packed  on  to  carts, 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  221 

and  taken  to  Vescovana.  In  the  late  evening  the 
young  men  come  from  their  work  and  carry  the 
sacks  up  to  the  granaries.  This  is  the  hardest 
labour  of  the  year.  The  sacks  are  very  heavy, 
weighing  from  50  to  72  kilos  each,  and  it  re- 
quires both  strength  and  agility  to  hoist  them  on 
the  shoulders  and  run  up  the  precipitous  brick  steps 
into  the  barns.  The  work  is  well  paid.  A  man 
can  even  earn  five  francs  in  a  single  evening  by 
straining  his  muscles  considerably,  and  it  is  the 
young  giants  of  Gromboolia  who  compete  and  re- 
joice in  the  process.  They  strip  themselves  of  all 
possible  clothing,  and  if  Michelangelo  were  to  see 
them  he  might  glory  in  the  grand  display  of  human 
muscle.  The  low  red  light  of  the  setting  sun 
streams  into  the  barchesse,  flooding  the  carts  with 
the  golden  grain,  the  sacks,  the  dust,  and  large 
lithe  figures  of  the  men. 

The  beautiful  Canotto  excelled  at  this  work.  His 
extreme  vanity  led  him  to  carry  two  sacks  at  a  time, 
singing  loudly  all  the  time.  Canotto  was  a  splendid 
creature — a  prize  specimen  of  Gromboolian  humanity 
— and  he  knew  it.  He  stood  about  6  ft.  3  in.  on  his 
bare  feet.  A  fiendish  joy  in  his  life  and  his  beauty 
played  for  ever  through  his  eyes.  He  had  passed 
his  military  service  in  the  cuirassiere  because  of 
his  size  and  strength.  L.  photographed  him  one 
morning    reaping.     When  the  print  arrived  I  told 


222    DA  YS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

Canotto  of  it,  imparting  the  news  to  him  one 
evening  as  we  drove  through  some  fields  in  front  of 
the  gleaners.  "  E  molto  bello,"  I  said  to  the  smiling 
Adonis  (meaning,  of  course,  the  plate).  "  Ah,"  he 
answered  me  blandly,  smiling,  "  you  see  I  am  very 
beautiful."  Then  he  seized  the  prettiest  girls  by 
the  hands  and  rushed  with  them  across  the  stubble 
into  the  sunset — three  superb  specimens  of  this 
Southern  humanity — awfully  regardless  of  those 
austere  qualities  in  human  life  which  haunt  for  ever 
the  brow  of  the  mountaineer 


CHAPTER   XVII 


DAY      AT      TRISSI  NO 


WAS  called  at  four,  and  arose  unwillingly,  not 
*  because  I  was  sleepy,  but  merely  dulled  by  the 
dreariness  of  dawn  and  with  that  peculiar  hopeless- 
ness of  self  and  of  earthly  or  even  heavenly  comfort 
which  inevitably  enters  the  mind  of  one  looking  at 
that  hour  upon  the  lowlands. 

Deny  it  or  not  as  you  will,  I  tor  my  part  must 
confess  to  a  belief  that  Nature,  like  other  beautiful 
ladies,  has  her  moments  or  deshabille  when  she 
should  not  be  contemplated  too  closely.  Let  her 
shake  out  those  locks  of  hers,  sodden  and  uncombed, 
clotted  and  draggled  by  the  dews  of  night.  Then, 
with  the  second  kiss  of  her  father,  the  sun,  let  her 
lovers  go  forth  and  embrace  her. 

There  is,  moreover,  something  uniquely  depressing 

in  a   Paduan   dawn  :    a  certain  close  clamminess  in 

the  bent  leaves  of  the  camomile  flowers  draggling 

in  mud  along  the  road ;  and,  in  the  drooping  grass 

and  dripping  ribbons  of  the  maize,  a  heavy  melan- 

223 


224  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

choly.  The  sun  arises  hot  and  damp  amid  the 
soaking  mists  which  encircle  the  horizon  line.  You 
scarcely  see  your  god  of  day,  but  dead  dull  belts 
of  crimson  cross  the  western  sky,  and  a  faint, 
feverish  blue  vanishes  above  in  the  higher  air,  which 
is  very  chill.  The  peasant  girls  emerge  from  their 
mud  huts,  and  creep  sullenly  between  the  hedges 
of  Indian  corn,  shivering  as  their  bare  feet  press  the 
dew.  Yet  these  are  the  same  women  who,  some 
four  hours  later,  will  appear  like  goddesses  gleaning 
on  the  sun-baked  stubble  fields.  The  farmers  drive 
depressed  and  unstretched  horses  along  the  silent 
roads,  sitting  wrapped  tight  in  fur-lined  mantles — 
grim,  grey  men,  who  at  midday  will  be  cocking  it 
over  all  the  roost.     No  bird  sings. 

At  five  o'clock  we  drove  amidst  these  things 
in  the  "  Calais-Douvre "  to  the  station  of  Stang- 
hella,  there  got  into  the  train  and  closed  the 
windows,  for  fever  haunted  the  mind  of  my 
companion,  A.,  more  than  ever  at  this  hour  of 
the  day,  and  no  amount  of  camphor  crystals  or 
great-coats  could  make  him  happy.  If  any  one 
desires  to  realise  the  birth  of  a  summer  day  in 
Gromboolia  let  him  enter  one  of  its  omnibus  trains 
at  five  o'clock  on  a  July  morning,  and  be  dragged 
across  the  plain  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour. 
He  will  have  every  opportunity  to  note  its  progress. 
Be    it    confessed,    I    closed   my   eyes,    but   opened 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  225 

them  sometimes,  and  saw  the  disappearance  or 
the  mists  and  caught  a  vision  of  the  Euganean 
Hills  through  which  we  passed.  Then  I  looked 
again,  and  there  was  Padua.  See  Padua  then  and 
you  will  know  her  splendour.  Her  pearly  domes, 
her  pointed  minarets,  rose  in  an  opal  cluster  as 
of  sea-shells  above  the  mulberry-trees — an  Eastern 
city  seen  suddenly  in  the  very  heart  of  this  Italian 
plain.  Also  the  day  had  come :  no  dampness  any- 
where, nor  sign  of  mist,  but  blue,  clear,  radiant 
blue  above  our  heads,  and  an  immense  sun  pouring 
mighty  beams  across  Venetia. 

At  Padua  one  omnibus  train  was  exchanged  for 
another,  and  we  started  off  towards  the  Monti 
Berici.  The  country  seemed  more  scorched  and 
dry  in  these  parts  than  in  Gromboolia.  The  acacia 
hedges  were  already  tipped  with  orange,  the  ditches 
void  or  water,  and  naked  stalks  of  water-lilies  reared 
themselves  from  out  the  sun-baked  mud.  Blue 
mallows  grew  abundantly  amongst  the  stubble, 
and  the  corn  was  stacked  more  in  the  English 
manner.  Indeed,  after  about  thirty  miles  of  travel 
we  experienced  the  delicious  sensation  of  being 
in  "  foreign  parts."  We  skirted  along  the  foot 
of  the  Monti  Berici — low  wooded  mountains  all 
in  miniature,  with  flecks  of  white  and  red  where 
marble  villas  rose  amidst  dark  alleys  of  cypress  and 
of  pine.     Vicenza's  tall  red  campanile — and  in  all 

15 


226  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

Italy  there  is  none  as  rosy  or  as  slender — shot  up 
above  Palladio's  Sala  as  we  neared  the  city.  At  the 
next  station  of  Tavernelle  we  left  the  train,  prepared 
to  take  a  tram  to  Trissino.  We  were  here  told, 
however,  by  two  drivers  who  clamoured  for  our 
patronage,  that  the  tramvai  would  not  start  for 
another  hour ;  so  we  were  driven  to  charter  the 
small  but  tidy  gig  and  the  least  dismal  horse  of  one 
of  these  gentlemen,  and  commenced  a  long  drive  up 
the  Val  d'Agno. 

It  was  appallingly  hot  and  dry.  The  country 
seemed  absolutely  denuded  of  clothes.  The  mul- 
berry-trees were  stripped  bare  for  the  silkworms, 
the  corn  cut,  the  fields  abandoned,  the  Indian  corn 
planted  too  late,  and  withered  by  the  heat  of  July 
days.  But  as  we  slowly  advanced  into  that  broad 
valley  matters  began  to  change.  Our  road  lay  under 
the  hill  and  through  the  present  town  of  Mon- 
tecchio.  Above  us  the  two  skeleton  towers  of  the 
old  fortress  stood  like  guardian  eagles.  Montecchio 
has  a  very  pleasing  situation  on  the  last  spurs  of  the 
Alps,  and  the  young  Romeo  may  have  played  within 
its  walls  and  learnt  a  little  of  his  love  for  nature 
from  the  beauty  of  the  landscape  all  around  him. 
The  old  fortress  is  now  abandoned  ;  the  city  wall 
shows  like  a  torn  rag  upon  the  hillside.  But  there 
is  a  great  charm  about  the  present  town,  which 
consists   of  a   single    street — two   lines   of    houses 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  227 

running  the  round  of  the  hill.  The  length  of  this 
street  seems  interminable.  The  houses  are  well 
built  but  ill  kept.  The  massive  corner-stones,  the 
open  portals,  the  bulging  iron  balconies  all  seemed 
dusty  and  asleep  as  we  drove  through.  No  creature 
stirred  across  the  pavement  to  draw  up  water  from 
those  glorious  wells,  for  wells  are  a  great  feature 
in  Montecchio.  I  counted  four  of  them  along 
the  winding  street,  huge  hunks  of  marble  heavily 
carved  and  worn  by  the  interminable  hauling  up 
of  buckets  through  generations  in  centuries  past. 
They  are  now  adorned  by  iron  frameworks  to 
facilitate  the  progress  of  the  bucket  strings  in  our 
nineteenth  century. 

We  left  the  genial  hills  and  crossed  a  line  of 
straight  fields,  to  wind  once  more  amongst  the 
mountains  of  Montecchio.  And  here  we  saw  a 
sight  new  and,  to  me,  most  pleasant,  namely,  the 
Venetian  sumach  flowering  in  all  its  glory.  Indeed 
the  hill  looked  as  though  some  flock  of  pink  and 
yellow  birds  had  passed  it  by,  scattering  their  fluff 
across  its  sides.  But  instead  of  this  it  was  the 
seeding-time  of  that  delightful  bush  known  to 
me  hitherto  only  in  gardens — old  English  garden 
books  call  it  the  wig-tree.  Small  pinks,  cam- 
panulas, and  many  familiar  herbs  grew  on  those 
sunny  slopes ;  and  every  minute  the  vegetation 
became  denser,  greener,  more  abundant.     The  fields 


228  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

now  were  fields  of  hay ;  we  smelt  the  scented  pollen 
across  the  hedge.  It  is  true  that  the  river-bed  was 
dry,  but  one  knew  fresh  water  had  washed  abun- 
dantly those  whitening  pebble  stones  and  left  its 
memory  upon  the  meadow  flowers. 

We  were  now  high  up  in  the  valley,  and  coming 
round  a  corner  we  saw  Trissino — a  small  green 
hill,  a  bower  of  vines,  of  trees,  of  shrubs,  and  olives, 
from  whose  maze  statues  and  palace  fronts,  brown 
homesteads  and  church  towers,  peered  forth  upon 
a  billowy  sea  of  green.  For  the  foot  of  that  hill  at 
Trissino  was  lapped  by  meadows  broad  and  shady 
full  to  the  brim  of  yellow  flowers  and  of  hemlock 
heads  innumerable.  Long  avenues  of  poplar  were 
planted  here  amongst  the  grasses — planted  by  a 
wise  man,  who  desired  to  make  men  amorous  of 
his  hill-town  by  drawing  their  eyes  unconsciously 
through  such  sweet  visions  up  to  his  palaces  beyond. 
So  cool,  so  green,  so  fresh  and  scented  was  this 
place,  you  desired  to  stretch  limbs  weary  with  the 
dust  and  travel,  and  rest  for  ever  in  those  easy 
shallows.  But  instead  of  committing  such  a  lazy 
folly  we  rattled  on  up  the  street  of  the  town 
and  entered  the  inn.  "You  can  have  nothing  at 
all  to  eat,"  said  its  inhospitable  landlord ;  "  we 
are  not  accustomed  to  forestieri.  There  is  no  meat 
in  the  house,  neither  can  we  procure  any  in  the 
town." 


A    DOGE'S   FARM 


229 


There  are  few  things,  perhaps,  more  painful  to 
one's  vanity  than  when  absolutely  enamoured  of 
a  new  place  to  be  treated  as  out  of  it — utter 
strangers  with  foreign  tastes  and  needs.     This  fact 


STEPS   LEADING  TO   FRONT  DOOR,   TRISSINO. 

certainly  pained  my  companion  more  than  myself. 
For  had  he  not  been  born  and  bred  in  Trissino  ? 
Did    not    his    family   arms    adorn    the    walls,   and 


230  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

were  they  not  carved  on  every  tomb  within  its 
church  ?  My  poor  plea  of  having  fasted  since 
4  a.m.  was  mean  by  comparison.  "  I  will  eat !  " 
roared  A.  "At  all  costs  I  will  eat  !  Son  of 
your  mother,  do  you  understand  me  ? "  The 
landlord  was  duly  impressed  by  this  very  simple 
appellation.  He  called  together  and  abused  all 
his  womenkind,  by  which  equally  simple  means 
a  meal  was  evolved.  During  its  preparation  A. 
strode  into  the  piazza  and  harangued  the  inhabitants, 
whilst  I  attempted  a  game  of  bowls  below  the 
mulberry-trees. 

"Who  was  your  father?"  "In  what  condition 
were  the  money  affairs  of  your  grandmother  when 
she  died  ?  "  "  Why  are  you  so  much  uglier  than 
your  aunts?"  and  questions  of  the  same  pene- 
tration and  politeness  met  my  ears  from  the  piazza. 
Then,  "You  can  eat  ! "  screeched  the  landlord  from 
an  upper  window,  and  A.  and  I  collided  in  our 
efforts  to  reach  the  doorway. 

Silence  followed  as  we  took  our  stools  in  the  cool 
dining-room  of  that  unfrequented  pothouse,  and 
attacked  the  largest  basin  of  maccaroni  con  for- 
maggio  ever  perhaps  offered  to  a  coachman,  a 
priest,  and  an  English  traveller.  There  were  eggs, 
too,  in  a  nice  hard  omelette,  rare  slices  of  salame 
in  a  piece  of  newspaper,  cheese,  and  Trissino  wine  : 
"  In  viaggio  si  fa  cosi,"  explained  A.,  who  had  thrust 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  231 

a  certain  new  and  unbecoming  wideawake,  which  had 
come  from  Paris  and  greatly  oppressed  him,  to  the 
extreme  back  of  his  head,  and  was  shovelling  in  the 
maccaroni  with  ecstatic  gusto. 

After  this  meal  we  went  out  straight  to  see 
the  town.  It  was  nearly  midday.  It  was  the 
7th  of  July,  and  the  hour  which  can  only  be 
described  as  being  absolutely  shadeless.  We  walked 
up  a  steep  winding  road  which  leads  to  the  villa  and 
the  church  of  Trissino.  There  were  houses  and 
cypress  hedges  on  one  side  of  our  path,  whilst 
the  hill  was  supported  on  the  other  by  high  walls. 
These  walls  one  scarcely  saw.  They  were  hidden 
by  a  hundred  flowering  shrubs,  which,  burying  their 
roots  in  the  shaded  earth  behind,  burst  in  splendid 
blcom  upon  the  heated  street,  there  to  please  the 
passer-by,  to  ripen  seed  and  seek  for  sun  and  rain 
and  air.  Here  grew  valerian  white  and  red,  shaded 
by  pomegranates.  Caper-flowers  rushed  down  in 
white  cascades  ;  a  warm  breeze  played  among  their 
purple  stamens.  Small  sedums,  campanulas,  and 
tiny  ferns  peered  from  the  lower  cracks,  and  roses 
and  red  honeysuckle  fell  from  the  cypress-trees 
above. 

Here,  indeed,  was  a  wall  garden  which  the  wall 
gardener  might  weep  in  envy  to  behold,  in  impotence 
to  rival. 

Up  and   on    we  went.     At   intervals  we    caught 


232  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

a  glimpse  of  the  garden  we  had  come  to  see 
through  a  statue-guarded  gate,  or  a  bit  of  terrace 
gleamed  white  above  our  heads.  Then  when  we 
reached  the  topmost  gate  we  entered. 

This  villa  at  Trissino  was  one  of  the  many 
possessions  of  Giangiorgio  Trissino,  a  poet  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  For  a  description  of  Giorgio's 
life  and  work  I  here  make  some  extracts  from  my 
father's  "  History  of  the  Italian  Renaissance."  He 
begins  with  a  comparison  between  Trissino  and 
Tasso  : — 

•*  Bernardo  Tasso  is  the  representative  of  a  class 
which  was  common  in  Renaissance  Italy,  when 
courtiers  and  men  of  affairs  devoted  their  leisure 
to  study,  and  composed  poetry  upon  scholastic 
principles.  His  epic  failed  precisely  through  the 
qualities  for  which  he  prized  it.  Less  the  product 
of  inspiration  than  pedantic  choice,  it  bore  the  taint 
of  languor  and  unpardonable  dulness.  Giangiorgio 
Trissino,  in  the  circumstances  of  his  life  no  less  than 
in  the  nature  of  his  literary  work,  bears  a  striking 
resemblance  to  the  Amadigi.  The  main  difference 
between  the  two  men  is  that  Trissino  adopted  by 
preference  the  career  of  diplomacy  into  which  poverty 
drove  Tasso.  He  was  born  at  Vicenza  in  1478,  or 
wealthy  and  noble  ancestors,  from  whom  he  inherited 
vast  estates.  His  mother  was  Cecilia,  of  the  Bevilacqua 
family.     During  his  boyhood  Trissino  enjoyed  fewer 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  233 

opportunities  of  study  than  usually  fell  to  the  lot  of 
young  Italian  nobles.  He  spent  his  time  in  active 
exercises  ;  and  it  was  only  in  1 506  that  he  began  his 
education  in  earnest. 

"  Trissino's  inclination  towards  literature  induced 
him  to  settle  at  Milan,  where  he  became  a  pupil 
of  veteran  Demetrius  Calcondylas.  He  cultivated 
the  society  of  learned  men,  collected  MSS.,  and 
devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  Greek  philosophy. 
From  the  first  he  showed  the  decided  partiality  for 
erudition  which  was  destined  to  rule  his  future 
career.  But  scholars  at  that  epoch,  even  though 
they  might  be  men  of  princely  fortune,  had  little 
chance  of  uninterrupted  leisure.  Trissino's  estates 
gave  him  for  a  while  as  much  trouble  as  poverty 
had  brought  on  Tasso.  Vicenza  was  allotted  to  the 
Empire  in  1509  ;  and  afterwards,  when  the  city  gave 
itself  to  the  Venetian  Republic,  Trissino's  adherence 
to  Maximilian's  party  cost  him  some  months  of 
exile  in  Germany,  and  the  temporary  confiscation 
of  his  property.  Between  15 10  and  15 14,  after 
his  return  from  Germany,  but  before  he  made  his 
peace  with  Venice,  Trissino  visited  Ferrara,  Florence, 
and  Rome.  These  years  determined  his  life  as  a 
man  of  letters.  The  tragedy  of  Sofonisba^  which  was 
written  before  15 15,  won  for  its  author  a  place 
among  the  foremost  poets  of  the  time.  The  same 
period  decided  his  future  as  a  courtier.     Leo  X. 


234  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

sent  him  on  a  mission  to  Bavaria,  and  upon  his 
return  procured  his  pardon  from  the  Republic  of 
St.  Mark.  There  is  not  much  to  be  gained  by 
following  the  intricate  details  of  Trissino's  public 
career.  After  Leo's  death  he  was  employed  by 
Clement  VII.  and  Paul  III.  He  assisted  at  the 
coronation  of  Charles  V.,  and  on  this  occasion  was 
made  Knight  and  Count.  Gradually  he  assumed  the 
style  of  a  finished  courtier  ;  and  though  he  never 
took  pay  from  his  Papal  or  princely  masters,  no  poet 
carried  the  art  of  adulation  further. 

"This  self-subjection  to  the  annoyances  and  in- 
dignities of  Court  life  is  all  the  more  remarkable 
because  Trissino  continued  to  live  like  a  great  noble. 
When  he  travelled  he  was  followed  by  a  retinue  of 
servants.  A  chaplain  attended  him  for  the  celebration 
of  Mass.  His  litter  was  furnished  with  silver  plate, 
and  with  all  the  conveniences  of  a  magnificent  house- 
hold. His  own  cook  went  before,  with  couriers,  to 
prepare  his  table  ;  and  the  equipage  included  a  train 
of  sumpter  mules  and  serving-men  in  livery.  At 
home  in  his  palace  at  Vicenza,  or  among  his  numerous 
villas,  he  showed  no  less  magnificence.  Upon  the 
building  of  one  country  house  at  Cricoli,  which  he 
designed  himself,  and  surrounded  with  the  loveliest 
Italian  gardens,  enormous  sums  were  spent ;  and 
when  the  structure  was  completed  he  opened  it  to 
noble  friends,  who  lived  with  him  at  large  and  formed 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  235 

an  academy,  called  after  him  La  Trissiniana.  Trissino 
was,  moreover,  a  diligent  student  and  a  lover  of 
solitude.  He  spent  many  years  of  his  life  upon  the 
island  of  Murano,  in  a  villa  secluded  from  the  world, 
and  open  to  none  but  a  f&w  guests  of  similar  tastes. 
Yet  in  spite  of  the  advantages  which  fortune  gave 
him,  in  spite  of  his  studious  habits,  he  could  not 
resist  the  attraction  which  Courts  at  that  epoch 
exercised  over  men  of  birth  and  breeding  throughout 
Europe.  He  was  for  ever  returning  to  Rome, 
although  he  expressed  the  deepest  horror  for  the 
corruptions  of  that  sinful  city.  No  sooner  had  he 
established  himself  in  quiet  among  the  woods  and 
streams  of  the  Vicentine  lowlands,  or  upon  the  breast 
of  the  Venetian  lagunes,  than  the  hankering  to  shine 
before  a  Prince  came  over  him,  and  he  resumed  his 
march  to  Ferrara,  or  made  his  bow  once  more  in  the 
Vatican. 

"  The  end  of  Trissino's  life  was  troubled  by  a 
quarrel  with  his  son  Giulio,  in  which  it  is  difficult 
to  decide  whether  the  father  or  the  son  is  most 
to  blame.  .  .  .  Whatever  may  have  been  the  crimes 
of  Giulio  against  his  father,  Trissino  used  a  cruel 
and  unpardonable  revenge  upon  his  elder  son.  Not 
content  with  blackening  his  character  under  the  name 
of  Agrilupo  in  the  Italia  Liberata^  he  wrote  a  codicil 
to  his  will,  in  which  he  brought  against  Giulio  the 
most  dangerous  charge  it  was  then  possible  to  make. 


236  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

He  disinherited  him  with  a  curse,  and  accused  him  of 
Lutheran  heresy.  It  was  clearly  his  father's  intention 
to  hand  his  son  down  to  an  immortality  of  shame  in 
his  great  poem,  to  ruin  him  in  his  temporal  affairs, 
and  to  deprive  him  of  his  ecclesiastical  privileges. 
Posterity  has  defeated  his  purpose,  for  few  indeed  are 
the  readers  of  Trissino's  Italia  Liberata." 

I  have  quoted  thus  at  length,  for  it  strikes  me  that 
the  character  and  work  of  Giorgio  are  strangely  in 
accord  with  his  gardens  at  Trissino — anxious  imita- 
tions of  a  dead  art.  The  rococo  statues  round  the 
ponds  resemble  their  Greek  ancestors  as  little  as 
Giorgio's  Italia  Liber ata  did  the  great  epic  of  Homer. 
Yet  they  both  have  charm.  And  I  think  that  the 
poet-courtier  of  the  Renaissance,  with  his  fine 
carriages,  his  learned  friends,  his  chaplain  and  his 
cooks,  must  have  visited  this  villa  as  well  as  the  one 
at  Cricoli,  or  on  the  island  of  Murano.  After  a 
lapse  of  four  whole  centuries  some  trace  still  lingers 
of  their  passage.  One  feels  their  footsteps  on  the 
sunny  terraces.  Court  scandals  hover,  together  with 
imitation  classics,  under  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  and 
through  the  hornbeam  alleys. 

A.  and  I  waited  long  for  the  villa  gates  to  be 
opened.  Then  we  entered  the  garden,  and  an  odd 
impression  seized  me  that  we  were  in  an  artificial 
landscape.  This  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  real 
hill  had  been  banked  up  in  order  to  form  a  flat  piece 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  237 

of  ground  for  the  house,  and  all  its  angles  had  been 
smoothed  away  and  adapted  to  the  use  of  man  by 
man's  hand.  On  the  back  terrace  there  were  beds 
of  flaming  zinnias  ;  whilst  under  the  northern  wall 
there  was  a  shimmer  like  moonlight  over  blue 
hydrangea  blossoms. 

The  house  in  itself  is  only  one  long,  narrow  line 
of  building,  with  one  small  wing  containing  a  single 
room  at  either  end.  All  the  windows  open  upon 
the  front.  There  appear  to  be  no  passages,  and  the 
arrangements  must  be  distracting  when  the  lady  of 
Trissino  entertains  a  house-party.  The  front  of  the 
house  is  encompassed  by  a  high  balcony  or  terrace 
raised  from  the  level  of  the  lower  garden  on  a  series 
of  stone  arcades.  Thus  one  can  walk  round  a  perfect 
square.  The  house  forms  one  side  of  this  square, 
the  other  is  made  by  a  hanging  garden,  the  two 
flanks  being  nothing  but  thin  arcades  hidden  in 
creepers.  In  the  middle  is  a  green  courtyard,  below 
the  parks,  the  terraces,  and  gardens,  and  beyond  the 
view. 

You  may  wander  far  in  many  lands  and  see  no 
such  view  as  that  from  Trissino.  To  the  south  one's 
eye  is  carried  down  the  broad  valley  of  the  Agno, 
which  winds  round  Montecchio,  and  is  lost  in  the 
faint  blue  haze  of  Lombardy.  Behind  the  impene- 
trable Alps  bar  all  horizon — huge  weather-beaten 
crags,  soaring  like  guardian  eagles  with  snow  upon 


238  BAYS   SPENT  ON 

their  plumage,  above  the  sunny  slopes  of  Italy.  You 
can  sit  there  on  the  raised  garden  gazing  at  the 
spectacle,  with  wild  thyme  blowing  round  your 
feet,  and  below  you  on  the  terraces  a  wilderness 
of  oleanders  and  pomegranates,  of  lemon-trees  and 
orange.  For  of  these  trees  the  garden  is  full,  and  in 
July  at  midday  there  was  such  a  colour,  such  a  scent 
and  blaze,  I  almost  thought  myself  back  in  the 
regions  of  an  old  impossible  fairy-tale.  I  tried  in 
vain  to  sketch  any  of  its  splendours,  and  then  sub- 
mitted to  be  taken  through  the  house,  which,  like 
most  houses  one  is  "  shown  over,"  greatly  oppressed 
me.  There  seemed  to  be  an  amazing  amount  of  beds 
in  that  villa,  where  the  passing  stranger  can  picture 
nothing  less  romantic  than  guitars  and  nightingales 
after  sundown.  There  was  a  surprising  lack  of 
geniality  or  comfort  in  these  interminable  rooms. 
The  excellence  of  the  prints  upon  the  wall,  the  beauty 
of  damask  upon  the  chairs,  were  hopelessly  obscured 
by  their  framings.  Yet  this  earthly  paradise  might 
have  been  made  one  equally  within  and  without.  Its 
present  owners  prefer  the  city.  "  Up  to  the  villa  " 
they  only  come  in  autumn,  and  the  cool  air,  the 
delicious  fountains,  the  splendour  of  the  flowers, 
are  ignored  by  the  inhabitants  of  a  palace  "  down 
in  the  city"  of  Vicenza. 

We  gladly  returned  to  the  garden,  and  explored 
some  few  of  its  fascinating  corners.    Here  were  alleys 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  239 

of  hornbeam  trees  interlaced  like  Gothic  arches,  dark 
leafy  places  with  unfathomable  views  of  sky  and 
plain  caught  through  their  windows.  And  here  was 
a  terrace,  some  two  hundred  yards  in  length,  where 
oranges  and  lemons  grew  from  big  terra-cotta  vases, 
and  gardenia  and  heliotrope  sprang  up  to  meet  them 
from  the  lower  beds.  All  the  white  pebbles  at  our 
feet  were  strewn  with  little  flames  from  the  fallen 
flowers  of  pomegranate  trees.  But  it  is  impossible  to 
convey  any  just  idea  of  these  Italian  terraces  to  those 
who  have  not  seen  them.  I  think  that  in  a  spot  like 
this  History  first  gave  birth  to  Romance. 

We  then  left  the  upper  garden.  A.  had  for  the 
time  become  a  child  again,  whose  baby  feet  had 
toddled  down  these  paths.  He  laughed,  he  screamed, 
he  pulled  pomegranate  petals,  and,  spreading  out  his 
priestly  robes,  he  ran  so  quickly  down  the  pebbly 
paths  I  scarcely  could  keep  pace  with  him.  We 
passed  through  grottoes  in  the  rock,  cypress  avenues, 
and  cedars  of  Lebanon,  until  we  issued  through  the 
ruins  of  the  first  villa  which  was  struck  by  lightning 
many  years  ago,  and  came  out  upon  the  lake  of 
Trissino.  It  is  purely  artificial,  this  lake,  but  I 
confess  to  a  belief  that  no  natural  thing  could  be 
more  fair.  There  is  a  large  green  plateau  of  about 
two  acres,  overgrown  with  grass  and  daisy  flowers. 
In  its  middle  is  an  immense  stone  basin  full  to  its 
brim  of  water.     Here  a  million  gold-fish  trifle  with 


240  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

the  sun,  and  here  the  clouds  are  mirrored  ;  here,  too, 
a  hundred  lovers  must  have  told  their  loves.  There 
are  statues — statues  everywhere,  rising  at  intervals 
along  the  pond,  standing  in  rows  along  the  parapets 
against  the  sky.  They  are  grey  rococo  things, 
these  statues.  They  bear  resemblance  to  no  human 
form  or  living  creature.  Eaten  by  time,  carved  at 
a  wrong  period  of  the  arts,  they  are  still  entirely 
delightful.  A  shepherdess  with  a  hat  chopped  off, 
stuck  on  awry,  a  Jove,  a  Juno,  a  Sophocles,  I  know 
not  what,  but  all  bathed  in  the  light  of  an  Italian 
afternoon,  with  growing  grass  about  their  feet,  water 
and  gold-fish,  behind  the  cypress  avenues,  beyond 
the  view. 

With  immense  unwillingness  we  left  that  garden 
and  returned  to  the  street.  Other  gardens  there 
may  be  in  other  hills,  but  none  can  have  the  charm 
peculiar  to  the  garden  there  at  Trissino. 

We  went  into  the  church  which  stands  on  the  very 
crest  of  the  hill.  Then  we  went  on  to  visit  the 
friends  of  A.'s  youth.  I  have  already  lingered  too 
long  within  the  shades  of  Trissino,  and  the  home 
of  these  people  deserves  a  longer  description  than  I 
can  give  it. 

We  entered  a  cool  house  with  big  stone  halls  and 
staircases.  Here  a  whole  family  was  assembled  in 
the  Italian  fashion  to  receive  us.  I,  being  the  only 
lady   guest,  occupied   the   guest   sofa,  where    I    sat 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  241 

enthroned,  relating  my  age  and  the  price  of  my  hat 
to  my  hostesses,  and  evading  the  too  lavish  hospitality 
of  my  exacting  hosts.  There  was  the  father  of  the 
family,  a  magnificent  gentleman  with  the  face  of  a 
hawk  ;  and  his  lady,  on  whose  brow  and  portly  figure 
Time  had  left  no  saddening  lines.  Their  two  grown- 
up daughters  sat  beside  them  ;  their  student  son 
served  out  the  wine  and  cakes ;  and  there  was  a  little 
fair-haired  grandson  too.  He  rode  a  bicycle  round 
the  outer  hall,  and  in  and  out  of  the  parlour.  Eve, 
the  dark-eyed  daughter,  sat  down  to  a  jingling 
harpsichord  into  which  her  fingers  brought  a  sudden 
soul.  Outside  a  fountain  splashed  in  the  garden, 
and  big  tea-roses  pushed  in  through  the  half-closed 
shutters.  The  son  was  a  philosopher,  but  he  copied 
Rembrandt,  and  also  touched  the  harpsichord.  As  it 
grew  cooler  we  went  out  into  the  garden,  and  sat  in  a 
green  arbour,  discussing  the  outsides  of  the  universe. 
The  daughters  showed  me  their  rooms,  with  stone 
floors,  and  iron  frameworks  embossed  with  roses  and 
carnations  in  the  place  of  washing-stands.  No  com- 
fort was  there  in  the  apartment  of  the  lovely  Eve, 
but  truly  a  painter's  bedroom  in  the  style  of  that 
Carpaccio  gave  St.  Ursula. 

It  was  now  past  four,  and  time  to  bid  adieu  to 
Trissino.  The  philosopher  son  accompanied  us  to 
our  inn.  He  spoke  with  gaiety  of  life.  He  might 
have  posed  as  a  model  for  a  rococo  faun  upon  the 

16 


242  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

fountains  up  above,  so  unreal  and  pleasing  a  being 
did  he  seem.  Fancy  a  philosophic  faun  !  I  almost 
believe,  though,  that  he  was  one.  He  talked  more 
readily  of  the  mask  he  wore  on  Christmas  Eve  in 
the  streets  of  Padua  than  of  the  studies  he  pursued 
within  that  city ;  and  as  we  ran  fast  down  that 
pebbly  street  his  feet  seemed  like  those  of  a  hind, 
and  A.  puffed  hopelessly  in  the  rear. 

We  stayed  to  see  some  very  beautiful  ironworks 
in  a  small  shop  outside  the  town,  then  we  drove  on 
to  Tavernelle,  stopping  in  a  thicket  of  the  Venetian 
sumach  to  gather  branches  of  that  tree,  hoping  to 
convey  it  home  with  us.  But  the  feathery  fluff  flew 
off,  leaving  the  rounded  leaves  and  bitter  scent.  The 
ground  seemed  literally  full  of  herbs  ;  southernwood 
abounded  with  silver  thyme  and  rue ;  and  here  we 
found  a  large  bushy  clematis  with  a  flower  like  that 
of  a  lemon.  Indeed,  the  hills  around  Montecchio 
struck  me  as  being  well  worth  the  visit  of  a  botanist. 
Their  fossils  are,  I  believe,  world-known.  Mon- 
tecchio was  more  awake  in  the  evening  hours,  and 
buckets  were  in  full  swing  around  the  wells.  Every 
mile  which  separated  me  from  Trissino  was  a  sorrow. 
The  last  I  saw  of  that  delicious  green  paese  was  a 
dark  mass  of  trees  upon  a  spur  of  hill  fallen  asleep  in 
meadows,  and  behind  the  mighty  jags  of  Tyrol. 

The  plain  seemed  horribly  hot.  The  train  had 
been  baking  all  the   way  from   Milan.     But   there 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  243 

comes  a  happy  period  in  a  hot  day  when  you  are 
able  to  ignore  its  degrees  of  temperature.  I  suppose, 
too,  that  after  fourteen  hours  of  constant  "  go,"  the 
human  casserole  refuses  to  boil,  and  assumes  an  even 
measure. 

Vicenza  looked  a  little  rosier,  a  little  more  ideal,  if 
that  were  possible,  and  the  Monti  Berici  smiled  as  the 
sunset  light  covered  them  in  a  veil  of  gold.  Bodies 
of  huge  clouds  arose  in  bubbling  piles,  and,  receiving 
the  light  of  the  setting  sun  upon  their  snowy  breasts, 
flushed  pink  and  golden,  as  did  the  earth,  the  mul- 
berry-trees, the  sulphur  on  the  vines,  the  oxen  at  the 
plough.  Thunderstorms  were  rolling  heavily  towards 
the  sea,  but  all  the  western  sky  was  clear  and  quiet. 

We  waited  half  an  hour  in  Padua,  leaving  again 
towards  nine.  Still  there  was  daylight  in  the  sky, 
and  the  Santo's  domes  stood  clear  and  blue  against 
a  bank  of  inky  storm.  An  orange  belt  of  intensest 
colour  lay  along  the  west,  fork  lightning  played  in 
and  out  of  the  east,  and  between  the  two  sailed 
a  large  half-moon  into  the  blue  of  coming  night. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE   ADIGE   AND    PALAZZO    ROSSO 

"  Guai  a  voi  quel  giorno  quando  l'Adige  s'alza  dal  letto." — 
Paleocapa. 

Y\7/L   always  found   a  cool  wind  there — a   breath 
* "     of  melting  icicles  carried  down  on  the  back  of 
the  river  from  the  eternal  snows   where  its  waters 
had  found  their  birth  some  days,  some  hours  back. 

Right  through  Gromboolia  it  runs,  a  mighty  body 
covering  a  tempestuous  soul.  Lombard  grasses, 
Lombard  willows,  rank  tangles  of  a  hundred 
southern  plants  flourish  along  its  banks  and  bend 
to  kiss  the  cooling  flood.  But  it,  remembering  a 
mountain  flora,  bearing  the  embrace  of  primulas,  of 
gentian,  and  of  white  sprayed  saxifrage  upon  its  lips, 
brushes  these  coarse  plants  a  little  roughly,  as  it 
seems,  and  goes  its  terrific  way,  swelling  in  enormous 
curves,  with  never  a  sound  of  wave,  with  no  ripple 
against  a  stone,  for  its  bed  is  spread  with  sand.  A 
huge   power  suppressed,  moving  always  onward   to 

explore   the   Adriatic.       Perhaps    the    same    drops 

244 


DAYS   SPENT  ON  A    DOGE'S  FARM     245 

which  filtered  through  a  wooden  pump  in  some  distant 
village  of  the  Tyrol  will  play  about  the  feet  of  the 
Rialto  or  lap  the  steps  of  Doges'  palaces  in  Venice. 

For  hours  one  can  lie  and  wonder  near  those 
green  shores.  There  is  something  undeniably  en- 
larging to  the  human  mind  in  the  contemplation  of 
big  rivers.  This  platitude  is  so  stale  that  I  ought 
not  to  dish  it  up  to  a  satiated  public  ;  only  the 
Adige,  in  its  crossing  of  the  plain,  filled  my  mind 
with  large  and  strange  comparisons. 

A  road  runs  along  the  top  of  either  bank  ;  and 
here  for  ever  the  donkey-carts  crawl  slowly,  and 
the  white  oxen  lumber  by — great  quiet  beasts  with 
an  interminable  calm  in  their  dark  eyes.  Here 
small  gigs  rattle  through  the  dust — a  farmer  or 
a  bersagliere  lounging  in  the  right-hand  corner — 
and  peasant  girls  and  children  shuffle  onward  with 
bare  feet.  Always  the  same  black  mills  for  grinding 
corn  float  upon  the  current,  and  swifts  fly  screaming 
over  and  across. 

On  either  side  you  see  the  tops  or  towers,  and  far 
below  the  plain.  There  is  the  terror  of  the  thing. 
The  Adige  runs  through  no  deep  river-bed,  but  over 
an  artificial  mountain  made  by  its  own  mad  diggings 
on  the  hills.  So  when  you  drive  along  this  road 
you  look  down  upon  all  other  roads — down  almost 
upon  the  hills — and  familiar  objects  are  shown  to 
you   mapped  out  in  squares. 


246 


DAYS   SPENT  ON 


I  experienced  an  awful  joy  in  driving  myself 
along  these  banks.  There,  on  midsummer  after- 
noons, we  rattled  through  the  heavy  sand.  The 
Oracle  might  sit  beside  me  and  tell  me  of  his 
veterinary  successes  in  Vienna  :  I  heard  him  not  ; 
I  breathed  deep  of  the  cold  delicious  breath  of  that 
big  river.  It  half  maddened  me.  I  saw  phantoms 
of  cool  glacier  caves,  and  little  Alpine  flowers  grown 
in  deep    ravines.     A   desire    possessed  my  soul    to 


ON  THE   BANKS  OF  THE  ADIGE. 


be  amongst  them.  Gromboolia  seemed  so  hot,  so 
terribly  hot  and  flat.  I  almost  was  disloyal  to  my 
southern  love. 

But  this  drive  was  a  forbidden  fruit,  like  my  night- 
watches  on  the  balcony.  It  could  only  be  performed 
by  stratagem  and  very  rarely.  These  sunny  boule- 
vards have  seen  many  mortal  tragedies,  and  the 
Contessa  and  the  Oracle  shuddered  at  them. 
Usually  I  came  under  the  shadow  of  the  Adige  by 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  247 

the  high-road  or  the  small  canals.  I  was  always 
glad  to  come,  as  the  Adige  combined  a  visit  to 
Palazzo  Rosso,  and  Palazzo  Rosso  is  an  enchanted 
place.  It  fulfilled  all  my  ideals  of  Gromboolian 
palaces. 

This  Palazzo  is  a  broad  square  house  built  of 
red  brick.  It  has  small  marble  arches  over  the 
windows,  and  a  flight  of  crumbling  marble  steps, 
arcaded  halls  and  passages  full  of  cool  air.  Once 
it  commanded  a  view  of  the  Adige,  now  it  is 
shadowed  and  smothered  by  the  colossal  banks  of 
that  great  river,  which  have  been  gradually  grow- 
ing ever  since  it  was  built,  and  one  must  climb  to 
its  topmost  garrets  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  yellow 
flood.  The  house  was  built  originally  for  a  member 
of  the  Pisani  family.  Its  style  is  more  beautiful  and 
picturesque,  its  colouring  more  pleasing  to  the  eye 
than  that  of  Vescovana.  It  is  the  largest  farm  on 
the  Pisani  estates,  and  has  the  richest  land.  Once  I 
went  gleaning  there,  and  in  a  f&w  minutes  I  amassed 
colossal  sheaves.  For  centuries  it  had  been  in  the 
hands  of  tenant  farmers.  These  people  are  not 
always  of  a  scrupulous  turn  of  mind,  and  the  whole 
thing  was  gradually  sinking  into  a  state  of  decay  and 
ruin.  There  were  more  bats  than  people  in  the 
palatial  halls,  the  fields  refused  to  render  their  due 
increase,  their  very  hearts  being  squeezed  dry  year  after 
year  by  planting  the  same  crops  in  the  same  fields. 


248  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

So  Palazzo  Rosso  to  my  mind  was  a  pleasing  wilder- 
ness. I  delighted  in  its  desolation  which  the  Contessa 
viewed  with  such  disdain.  One  year  I  returned  to 
the  Doge's  Farm  and  found  that  the  pink  palace  by 
the  Adige  was  in  the  hands  of  its  mistress.  Lean 
cattle  were  replaced  by  fat  ones  within  its  stables, 
the  fields  had  been  left  fallow  for  a  season,  the  hedges 
clipped,  the  ditches  cleaned,  the  bats,  the  cobwebs, 
and  the  bricks  evicted  with  the  tenant  from  its  airy 
halls.  Indeed,  the  familiar  "system"  was  already 
permeating  the  whole.  I  could  not  review  with 
proper  kindness  all  these  changes,  until  I  considered 
that  no  one  could  change  the  palace-front  or  alter 
the  flow  of  the  Adige,  and  many  of  my  happiest 
hours  were  still  to  be  spent  at  Palazzo  Rosso. 

Our  time  there  was  always  too  short,  and  we  left 
it  with  regret.  We  had  a  drive  of  over  eight  miles 
from  Vescovana.  When  we  arrived  in  front  of  the 
stables  I  visited  some  favourite  calves  and  an  ancient 
bull  without  a  tail,  and  then  ran  up  the  high  banks 
of  the  Adige  and  lay  down  amongst  the  vetches  and 
white  clover  which  grew  to  its  very  brink.  The 
grasses  grew  so  tall  and  green  above  my  head.  The 
waters  sang  and  murmured  over  the  sand  in  the  river- 
bed, and  the  immense  sky  shone.  But  the  Oracle 
never  left  me  long  in  contemplation  of  the  Adige. 
He  considered  it  a  most  pernicious  folly.  His 
black  coat  and  impressive  buttons  appeared  above 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  249 

the  grasses  ;  words  of  warning  and  a  summons  to 
tea  called  me  away  from  the  river  and  its  dreams. 
Tea  at  Palazzo  Rosso  was  an  occasione.  The 
whole  palace  was  gradually  being  cleaned,  but  in  a 
cool  upper  room  the  Contessa  had  put  a  big  deal 
table,  some  chairs,  and  a  cupboard.  There  were 
cotton  curtains  in  the  window,  but  its  ledges  were  of 
marble,  and  its  view  reached  over  Lombardy.  In 
the  cupboard  we  kept  a  spirit-lamp  and  tea.  The 
salad  sandwiches  we  brought  with  us  in  a  piece 
of  paper.  The  Contessa  made  the  tea  herself.  I 
never  tasted  any  like  it.  We  drank  it  out  of  bowls 
which  looked  like  doge's  caps,  and  we  sat  on  cheap 
and  comfortable  chairs.  The  plate  had  been  bought 
in  Milan.  It  shone  like  silver,  and  each  piece  cost 
from  twenty  to  seventy  centimes.  The  air  was 
unusually  cool  in  that  abandoned  palace.  I  wished 
we  could  have  felt  more  absolutely  like  tinkers 
encamping  in  ducal  halls.  As  it  was  we  were 
'propria  rustica,  as  a  young  gentleman  of  the 
neighbourhood  said  to  me  concerning  his  bark- 
arbour.  Sometimes  the  evicted  tenant  joined  us — 
once  a  sarcastic  priest.  The  Oracle  thought  us 
very  low  when  at  the  end  of  this  humble  orgie 
he  was  commanded  to  bring  in  a  copper  secchio 
full  of  water.  He  could  have  cried  to  see  his 
mistress  dipping  in  the  tea-things  with  her  own 
pink  finger-tips. 


250  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

Tea  over,  I  was  able  to  leave  the  Contessa  and  the 
bailiffs  to  their  tempestuous  parleys,  and  to  penetrate 
a  certain  waste  and  marshy  land  which  was  entirely 
overgrown  by  bulrushes  and  tall  pink  grasses.  In 
Gromboolia  bulrush  seeds  are  collected,  dried,  and 
used  for  stuffing  pillows.  The  down  is  very  soft  and 
warm.  There  may  be  bulrushes  in  England,  but 
indeed  they  cannot  attain  to  the  colossal  dimensions 
of  those  it  was  my  privilege  to  gather  on  the  marshes 
round  Palazzo  Rosso. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Once  on  an  autumn  night  a  drama  was  enacted  in 
Gromboolia. 

It  had  poured  and  poured  with  rain  for  many  days, 
and  always  it  went  on  pouring.  Up  in  the  Alps  the 
torrents  had  broken  loose,  and  were  hurling  down 
their  floods  and  boulders  over  the  meadows. 

The  Adige  was  swollen,  yellow,  ghastly,  but  still, 
by  its  banks,  restrained.  A  dread  and  a  terror  were  in 
the  minds  of  the  people  on  the  plain.  They  went 
up  in  the  evening  to  the  top  of  the  banks  and  looked. 
Then  they  crept  down,  for  a  shudder  passed  through 
them. 

And  still  it  poured. 

At  midnight  a  gig  rattled  up  to  the  gates  of  a 
lonely  villa  on  the  plain. 

"  The  river  has  broken  on  the  Rovigo  side,"  said 
the  man  inside.     "The  people  are  mad — they  are 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  251 

coming  across  to  open  our  lock,  and  let  the  flood 
into  our  land  as  well  as  their  own.  It's  a  horrible 
flood — but  why  should  both  sides  perish  ?  " 

The  lady  of  the  villa  arose.  She  ordered  her 
horses,  and  she  drove  through  the  dark  and  the 
blinding  rain.  At  dawn  she  stood  on  the  banks  of 
the  Adige  beside  her  lock. 

She  was  a  woman,  but  she  stood  there  alone.  And 
"  Shoot,  then,  shoot !  "  she  cried  to  the  men  on  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  river. 

They  were  all  there,  half  mad  with  fear.  They 
had  their  guns  pointed  at  her,  but  they  didn't  shoot, 
and  the  flood  went  over  their  land  and  not  over 
hers. 

In  the  daylight  the  lady  went  back  to  her  villa, 
and  the  troops  came  down  from  Milan  and  guarded 
her  locks. 

The  fields  of  Gromboolia  were  dry. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

IN    THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS 

"  Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 
In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 
To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led, 
My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted  : 
'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 
I  stood  listening  to  the  pasan, 
With  which  the  legioned  rocks  did  hail 
The  sun's  uprise  majestical  ; 
Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 
Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  grey  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts,  and  then — as  clouds  of  even 
Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
In  the  unfathomable  sky — 
So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 
Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods."  .  .  . 
"Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills"  by  P.  B.  Shelley. 

A  CHANGE  had  come  across  the  plain.  A  dead 
calm  haze  of  heat  had  clung  about  the  sky  for 
days  without  the  vestige  of  a  cloud,  without  a  ruffle 
of  wind  amongst  the  drooping  leaves,  save  sometimes 

at   midday  a  tiny  timorous  breeze.     There  was  a 

252 


Photo  by  Mr.  IV.  W.  Vaughan 

THE   PERGOLA   OF   SHELLEY'S   VILLA  AT   ESTE   IN   THE   EUGANEAN   HILLS 


To  face  page  253 


DAYS  SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM     253 

feeling  of  suspense  in  Nature's  doings.  The  harvest 
fields  were  deserted  even  of  gleaners.  Gromboolia 
had  sunk  back  into  absolute  silence  and  apparent 
solitude,  save  where  by  some  farm  the  threshing- 
machine  was  working  still,  and  a  centre  of  life  and 
bustle  reigned. 

One  new  beauty,  however,  was  revealed  on  the  bare 
and  sun-baked  breast  of  nature — that  of  the  flowering 
Indian  corn.  Over  every  maize-field  there  was  seen 
a  shimmer  of  tasselled  bloom.  For  miles  and  miles 
between  ploughed  fields  the  crop  was  ripening  its 
pollen.  There  are  few  things  more  lovely  than  this 
blossom.  Silver,  gilded,  grey,  and  opal  green,  com- 
posed of  the  tiniest  flowerets,  it  rises  above  the  tall 
forest  of  stalk  and  ribbon  leaf,  and  lends  a  character 
new  and  pleasing  to  the  countenance  of  the  plain. 

Already  a  touch  of  yellow — a  half  suspicion  of 
autumn — had  crept  in  amongst  the  spring  green  of 
acacias,  and  a  crimson  leaf  was  no  rare  sight  upon 
the  vine.  In  the  ditches  there  was  scarcely  any 
water  left — in  the  garden  not  a  rose. 

I  now  began  to  think  with  joy  of  a  visit  to  the 
hills.  In  the  blue  Euganeans,  which  for  so  many 
weeks  we  had  seen,  quiet,  gentle  forms  rising  out  of 
the  plain,  I  pictured  to  myself  a  hundred  fresh  delights, 
and  so  determined  to  embark  on  travel. 

A  month  ago,  amidst  a  blare  of  trumpets  and  a 
clash  of  unmelodious  cornets,  the  two  young  English 


254  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

ladies  had  arrived  in  the  Doge's  Farm,  and  invited 
me  to  visit  them  in  the  Euganeans.  I  had  never 
seen  these  ladies  before,  nor  had  I  seen  them  since. 
They  descended  "  unbeknownst "  in  their  tiny  gig  at 
sunset  from  out  the  distant  hills  :  they  left  again  at 
dawn.  But  I  had  treasured  their  invitation  within 
my  heart,  and  watched  the  wandering  of  the  moon 
till  she  should  be  full  once  more,  and  fit  to  guide  us 
on  the  ascent  of  Venda.  Then  all  my  desires  went 
out  to  Teolo  and  the  tops  of  its  high  hills.  I 
mustered  courage,  and  wrote  a  note  to  my  unknown 
friends,  saying  I  did  not  care  for  milk  or  meat — the 
absence  of  which  details  they  had  lamented.  I  asked 
them  only  not  to  refuse  my  company  for  a  night  or 
two.  In  return  for  this  boldness  I  received  the 
kindest  note  of  welcome,  and  a  promise  to  meet 
me  at  Abano. 

My  friends  and  all  the  potentates  of  the  dogedom 
shook  their  heads.  Teolo,  they  said,  was  a  heathenish 
citta,  also  it  was  neither  customary  nor  fit  for  sig- 
norine  to  travel  in  this  neighbourhood  alone. 

I  packed  a  modest  hold-all,  and  drove  Bandis  to 
the  station — in  fact  I  was  bent  on  going,  and  so 
defied  Gromboolian  conventionalities  and  went. 

The  stationmaster  gave  me  a  cool,  empty  carriage 
to  myself,  with  strict  commands  to  the  guard  that 
no  one  should  enter  it.  It  was  awfully  hot  in  that 
train,  and  as  for  the  "  blue  hills  "  they  might  have 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  255 

been  back  in  their  primitive  condition  of  burning 
volcanoes.  They  were  dry  and  baked  around  their 
feet  as  though  the  plain  were  sucking  dry  their  dewy 
streams.  Arrived  at  Abano,  1  left  the  train  and 
looked  in  vain  for  the  ladies  of  Teolo.  They  were 
not  there,  but  an  elderly  and  affable  carpenter 
presented  himself  with  a  note  from  them,  regretting 
that  as  the  drive  was  over  two  hours  long  they  could 
not  embark  upon  it  at  midday.  So  I  got  into  the 
high  gig  of  the  carpenter,  and  rattled  off  through  an 
avenue  of  plane-trees,  full  of  the  sense  of  adventure. 
A  most  miniature  pony — a  little  adorable  mouse  of  a 
creature — dragged  us,  and  the  carpenter  enlivened 
the  drive  with  excellent  conversation.  The  country 
round  Abano  had  been  visited  by  a  hailstorm  the 
night  before,  and  trees  and  crops  were  terribly 
tattered.  Our  wheels  ran  smoothly  over  a  carpet 
of  green  leaves  strewn  in  the  dust.  The  heat  was 
indescribable.  Gromboolia  paled  by  comparison. 
But  the  mouse  trotted  along  at  a  great  rate,  and 
presently,  to  my  surprise  and  joy,  Praglia  appeared 
above  its  walls.  The  carpenter  suggested  that  I 
should  go  in  and  see  the  convent,  to  which  proposal 
I  gladly  acceded. 

There  was  an  elegant  gentleman  loafing  about 
under  a  white  umbrella  in  the  first  cloister.  He 
assisted  me  to  alight  from  that  very  inelegant  gig, 
and  seemed  anxious  to  divert  his  leisure  hours  in 


256  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

conversation.  But  having  no  notion  of  who  he  was, 
I  ignored  his  attentions,  accepting  instead  those  of  a 
clown  who  issued  from  a  neighbouring  stable  with 
the  keys.  The  carpenter  was  moody,  and  regretted 
the  society  of  the  swell,  who,  he  hastened  to  inform 
me,  was  the  present  proprietor  of  Praglia.  For  me 
it  was  pleasure  sufficient  to  penetrate  once  more  the 
mazes  of  that  immense  convent.  It  was  built  to 
hold  over  three  hundred  monks.  It  has  six  huge 
cloisters,  two  of  which  are  built  around  the  first 
storey,  the  centre  of  which,  paved  with  massive 
stones,  made  one  imagine  oneself  to  be  upon  the 
basement.  Terra-cotta  friezes  of  intricate  designs 
run  under  the  tiled  roofs,  and  wide  views  across  the 
plain  delight  one's  eyes  at  the  end  of  each  corridor. 
The  place  is  still  in  pretty  good  condition,  but  every 
year  will  add  to  its  decay. 

At  the  east  end  of  the  refectory  there  is  a 
Crucifixion  by  Montagna,  perfectly  preserved.  Few 
portraits  of  St.  John  appear  to  me  as  full  of  soul  and 
beauty  as  this  one.  With  hands  thrown  back  and 
eyes  uplifted,  St.  John  gazes  in  sorrow  but  in  faith 
upon  his  dying  Saviour.  The  carving,  too,  is  fine 
in  this  long  room,  and  angels  cut  in  chestnut  wood 
glow  along  the  walls. 

My  companions  were  deeply  appreciative.  The 
carpenter  was  every  inch  a  courtier.  About  the 
clown  there  hung  the  remnants  of  a  dead  gentility. 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  257 

It  is  his  duty  to  keep  some  miles  of  passages  and 
cells  free  from  too  much  dirt.  He  was  rather  rough 
in  his  handling  of  sacred  objects,  and  knocked  down 
an  archangel  over  the  door  of  the  refectory  in  his 
efforts  to  shut  it  tight.  But  he  showed  us  a  piece 
of  painting  I  had  missed  before  at  Praglia — a 
Flagellation  by  Montagna.  It  is  painted  on  the  wall 
behind  a  closed  bookcase.  A  thing  more  delicate  in 
colouring,  or  more  sweet  in  spirit,  I  have  rarely  seen. 
Hybiscus  bushes  were  flowering  wildly  in  the  lower 
cloisters.  Great  flapping  butterflies  of  pallid  hues, 
these  blossoms  seemed,  upon  their  darker  foliage. 

On  leaving  Praglia  we  bade  adieu  to  the  plain, 
and  wound  round  the  feet  of  that  series  of  wooded 
volcanoes — the  Euganean  Hills.  The  flowers  were 
very  abundant  and  beautiful.  Here  were  nice  shady 
villas  and  cooling  streams  :  dense  pergolas  of  vine 
drooped  in  festoons  above  the  doors  of  peasants' 
houses.     And  oh  the  songs  of  the  cicalas  ! 

But  the  chief  thing  which  struck  me  on  the  drive 
was  the  glory  of  shadow.  I  could  not  at  first  dissect 
what  thing  it  was  which  so  satisfied  my  eye  in  that 
new  country.  Then,  looking  further,  I  realised  that 
huge  masses  of  blue  shade  were  cast  abroad,  not  from 
the  vanishing  clouds,  but  by  the  solid  hills  them- 
selves. In  Lombardy  there  can  be  no  shade  like 
this  till  that  of  the  night  covers  it.  So  this  is  one 
of  the  greatest  charms  of  mountain  country.     Much 

17 


258  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

as  we  mortals  love  the  light,  and  need  it,  we  enjoy  it 
most  by  contrast. 

We  now  reached  the  foot  of  Monte  Grande, 
on  the  shoulder  of  which  hill  Teolo  is  built.  The 
ascent  is  long,  but  the  road  most  excellent,  ascending 
in  broad,  smooth  curves  like  those  on  a  Swiss  pass. 
Ailanthus-trees  spread  fan-like  leaves  on  either  side, 
and  innumerable  flowers  grow  on  the  chalky  soil. 
Here  the  everlasting  pea  drags  its  long  creeping 
stems,  studded  with  pink  bloom,  over  the  bushes 
and  paths,  and  tall  blue  campanulas  push  through 
trailing  clematis.  Pinks,  white,  red,  and  feathery, 
grow  here  in  all  their  glory  ;  but  how  such  fine  and 
tender  flowers  can  exist  on  that  sun-baked  soil  is 
to  me  a  marvel. 

We  drove  through  the  village  of  Teolo.  In  the 
courtyard  of  the  inn  a  party  of  fine  Venetians  were 
eating  macaroni.  It  was  evident  that  the  "  season  " 
had  set  in.  Ages  had  elapsed  since  last  I  slept  there 
among  the  silkworms. 

The  carpenter  and  the  mouse  rattled  down  a  deep 
lane,  and  then  through  some  massive  stone  portals, 
and  I  alighted  at  the  door  of  the  Casa  Baccaglini. 

This  is  the  residence  of  the  sindaco  of  Teolo. 
It  is  built  for  all  the  world  in  the  manner  of  a 
Swiss  hospice — only  with  this  difference,  that  it 
stands  on  the  spurs  of  the  most  romantic  and 
verdurous  hills  in   Northern   Italy.      It  is  a  grey 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  259 

farmhouse.  The  rough  stones  look  as  though 
storm  and  frost  were  not  unheard-of  visitors  in 
these  dreamy  regions.  A  troop  of  geese,  a  couple 
of  cows,  and  many  natives  stray  for  ever  in  and 
out  of  its  crumbling  gates.  Its  owner,  the  sindaco^ 
alternately  sleeps,  eats,  cooks  at  fairs,  performs  both 
field  and  ministerial  labours,  or  talks  philosophy  and 
gossips  with  his  guests.  His  younger  brother  enjoys 
the  same  large  intellect  and  capacity  for  taking  part 
in  every  phase  of  human  life.  These  two  charming 
old  bachelors  live,  so  to  speak,  on  the  fat  of  the 
land.  Their  sister,  a  nun,  whose  health  forces  her 
to  abandon  her  convent  cell,  cooks  their  meals  and 
does  some  of  the  housework,  and  their  little  niece 
runs  in  and  out  of  the  hospice  like  a  fairy  creature. 
They  were  indeed  a  charming  family,  amongst  whose 
midst  it  was  a  privilege  to  dwell  :  and  the  whole 
mysterious  menage  struck  me  as  being  admirably 
arranged.  For  the  four  English  ladies  had  brought 
with  them  an  Udine  chef  and  his  Tuscan  wife. 
The  casseroles  of  the  cook,  and  the  boot-trees  of 
his  mistresses,  mixed  to  perfection  with  the  earthen 
pots  and  sabots  of  the  two  bachelors  and  the  nun. 
Miss  D.,  in  a  large  sun-bonnet,  met  me  at  the 
door.  The  rest  of  the  party  were  taking  an  Italian 
lesson  with  the  village  schoolmistress.  We  sat 
down  in  a  hot  passage  to  tea,  at  which  meal  the 
others   presently   appeared.       They    were    all   very 


260  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

quiet  and  kind  and  nice  to  talk  to  but  it  was  absolutely 
unlike  Gromboolia. 

We  immediately  started  forth  upon  a  long  walk 
up  an  indescribably  steep  hill.  The  atmosphere 
was  boiling  hot,  but  an  icy  wind  blew  through 
my  light  silk  clothing  of  the  plain,  which  garment 
speedily  became  a  rag  amongst  the  rose-thorns  and 
the  brushwood.  We  found  the  large  wild  rose 
of  the  Euganeans  growing  here  in  great  abundance, 
and  tall  trees  of  myrtle  scented  the  air  as  we  crushed 
it  in  our  scrambles.  We  entered  a  curious  damp 
cave  by  the  light  of  a  single  candle,  which  was  soon 
extinguished  in  the  clammy  air,  leaving  us  to 
scramble  back  through  muddy  ways.  These  very 
novel  sensations  from  rock  and  chilly  moisture  were 
most  refreshing. 

In  the  late  evening  we  returned  to  Teolo  for 
supper.  We  were  gleefully  told  by  a  Baccaglini 
brother  that  the  table  had  been  spread  on  the 
summit  of  a  neighbouring  hill.  Thither  we  at 
once  proceeded,  and  took  our  seats  in  the  long 
grass  round  a  square  table.  As  a  stormy  night 
had  set  in,  the  air  was  like  pitch.  But  garlands  of 
hop  and  ivy  were  artistically  hung  from  poles  above 
our  heads  by  the  Udine  chef,  and  that  gentleman 
had  further  shown  great  skill  in  the  composition 
of  six  Chinese  lanterns  which  cast  a  lurid  light 
upon  our  faces.     With  the  first  course  came  a  clap 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  261 

of  thunder  and  a  sheet  of  rain.  We  were  compelled 
to  seize  our  plates  and  precipitate  ourselves  upon 
the  hospice.  The  table,  the  ivy,  the  hops,  and 
the  lanterns  were  seized  by  various  natives,  and 
followed  us  into  the  house,  where  our  meal  was  then 
completed. 

A  native  concert  followed,  and  not  till  a  late  hour 
did  we  retire  to  bed.  Sleep  was  at  first  out  of  the 
question,  and  not  till  long  after  the  dawn  had 
deadened  the  minds  of  night  visitors  did  I  obtain 
some  short  repose.  For  all  the  mosquitoes  and 
midges  of  Gromboolia  were  taking  their  villeg- 
giatura  at  Teolo.  Never  have  I  been  put  to 
such  a  test  of  human  endurance,  realising  at  last 
the  drawbacks  to  tropical  travel,  but  also  its  com- 
pensations in  the  sights  I  saw. 

The  young  ladies  of  Teolo  led  the  artistic  life 
absolutely.  They  gave  their  souls  to  Nature  and 
explored  her  most  unknown  paths.  In  fact  they 
courted  A.'s  enemy  —  fever  —  in  every  possible 
manner.  They  rose  at  3.30  a.m.,  and  proceeded 
out  among  the  misty  hills  to  paint  dewy  Paduan 
landscapes  till  seven,  when  they  returned  to 
coffee  (milk  is  attainable,  butter  scarce  in  Teolo). 
They  then  returned  to  their  work  till  ten,  when 
they  entered  the  hospice  and  slept  till  twelve, 
at  which  hour  they  ate  their  midday  meal  of 
vegetables,  pumpkin   salads,  and,  if   possible,  some 


262  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

meat.  They  returned  to  their  beds  till  four,  took 
tea  and  painted  till  eight,  when,  absolutely  worn 
out,  as  one  would  imagine,  they  ascended  to  the 
summit  of  that  little  hill,  where,  in  high  grasses 
amidst  the  rising  mists  and  heavy  dew,  their  thin 
clothes  covered  by  filmy  Eastern  shawls,  they  sat 
around  the  ivy-covered  table,  to  pick  at  viands 
strange  and  new. 

For  the  Udine  chef  was  an  artist  in  all  things. 
He  dished  up  no  common  viands,  or  unenticing 
puddings.  His  "  plats  "  approached  the  miraculous. 
His  beef  assumed  the  plumage  of  a  swan,  his  ginger- 
bread was  piled  in  Gothic  arches,  the  windows  of 
which  were  illuminated  from  within  by  unseen 
candles.  Also  he  made  fire-balloons,  which  sailed 
into  the  starlit  sky  to  divert  our  attention  between 
his  courses.  His  wife  in  the  meantime,  with  an 
orange  kerchief  tied  square  above  her  calm  and 
very  beautiful  face,  would  sometimes  sing  us  sad, 
slow  love-songs. 

Every  night,  too,  the  boy-musicians  of  Teolo 
would  come  playing  up  the  lane  from  out  the 
village,  and  these  concerts  made  a  deep  impression 
on  the  audience.  I  shall  often  long  to  hear  again 
those  bird-like  occarini — those  little  thrilling  songs 
with  madness  in  their  chorus. 

The  young  English  ladies  and  their  mother  had 
a  wonderful  love  for  the  native,  which  was  evidently 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  263 

returned.  The  small  boys  had  been  encouraged 
by  them  to  use  their  musical  gifts  in  harmony, 
not  each  alone  in  the  fields.  And  the  result 
was  very  charming.  They  play  the  occarino  to 
perfection  in  these  parts.  That  instrument  is 
made  for  the  open  air  and  woody  places.  It  is 
like  the  warbling  of  small  birds,  or  gurgling 
streams  in  spring. 

The  orchestra  of  small  brown  boys  sat  gravely 
in  a  circle  on  the  grass.  Their  repertoire  was  small, 
but  then  it  was  perfect.  An  inspired  baker  sat  in 
their  midst.  He  had  the  voice  of  an  archangel, 
and  sang  long  songs  between-whiles,  his  head 
thrown  back,  his  eyes  closed  in  an  ecstasy ;  and 
when  his  song  was  finished  in  came  the  occarini 
like  little  birds  singing  at  dawn  when  the  nightin- 
gale has  ceased. 

The  music  continued  till  the  audience  was  too 
soaked  by  dew  and  bitten  by  mosquitoes,  and  the 
performers  too  hoarse  and  too  satiated  by  wine, 
milk,  and  song  to  continue  longer  ;  then  towards 
eleven  the  Spartan  ladies  would  allow  themselves 
some  four  hours  of  repose. 

On  Wednesday  night  there  was  to  be  no  repose. 
On  that  night,  or  no  other,  we  were  to  ascend 
Venda.  The  moon  was  waning  fast.  We  needed 
every  inch  of  her  light  for  the  rough  ascent  we 
contemplated.     I  cannot   exaggerate  the  feeling  of 


264  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

excitement  and  ioy  which  filled  my  soul  when  I 
realised  the  fact  that  one  of  my  earliest  day-dreams 
was  to  be  fulfilled.  Such  things  are  certainly  rare 
in  life. 

When  first  I  read  Shelley's  "  Lines  in  the  Euga- 
nean  Hills"  the  desire  seized  me  to  watch  the  sun 
rise  over  Northern  Italy  from  the  highest  point 
of  those  volcanic  hills.  For  two  days  and  nights 
it  had  rained  off  and  on — sopping  summer  rain 
which  damped  our  hopes  as  surely  as  it  ate  into 
the  ears  of  Indian  corn.  But  on  that  afternoon 
the  clouds  rolled  off  like  whales  into  the  western 
heaven.  The  night  closed  in  hot  and  damp.  The 
little  boys  played  divinely,  and  then  went  off  along 
the  lane.  We,  too,  retired  to  our  rooms — but  not 
to  sleep. 

The  Udine  chef,  who  is  also  a  physician,  a  philo- 
sopher, a  singer,  and  a  poet,  pronounced  rest  before 
a  night-walk  to  be  a  dangerous  folly.  Loud  and 
melancholy  songs  arose,  therefore,  from  himself  and 
from  his  myrmidons  in  their  precincts  below  our 
bedrooms  until  twelve,  at  which  hour  we  hurried  out 
to  drink  black  coffee  in  the  kitchen;  and  at  12.30 
we  started  forth  by  the  light  of  a  feverish  and 
waning  moon  along  the  slopes  of  Venda. 

Signor  Baccaglini  accompanied  us  as  guide.  The 
air  was  warm  and  heavy- weighted,  like  a  summer 
afternoon  in  England.    Our  road  lay  at  first  through 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  265 

deep  lanes,   with   hedges   of  acacia,   dog-rose,   and 
clematis  on    either    hand.     It    was    a   broad,   white 
road,    ascending    by    easy    curves    to    higher   levels 
of  chestnut   grove.       The   country    was   peculiarly 
sad   and   still — if  the    mosquitoes    of    Gromboolia 
had  come  to  live  there,  the  nightingales  had  left 
it.      The   silence   was    profound.       Before   us   the 
waning    moon    arose    in    a    calm  sky  ;    but  at  our 
backs  a  deep  bank  of  thundercloud,  driven  on  by 
a  thin   hot   wind,    advanced    steadily ;    and   in   all 
directions    fitful    and    flickering    patches    of    sheet- 
lightning    came   and   went.     We  passed  through  a 
dense  chestnut  wood,  where  the  light  of  the  moon 
cast    an    almost   chalky   shimmer   over   the   leaves, 
whilst  the  immense  trunks  stood  black  against  the 
lighter  grass.     Then  we  came  to  Castel  Novo.     The 
village   was   dead   asleep,  and  every  shutter  barred 
against   us.     The    small    church  contains    an    altar- 
piece   by    Paolo  Veronese.      The    sindaco    told    us 
certain    things    about    the    doings    of    this    artist, 
whom  he  proved  to  be  a  great  canaille  and  maker 
of   inferior    pictures.       At    this  point    we   left   the 
road,     and    struck    into    the    ill-kept    tracks    and 
watercourses  of  Venda. 

It  was  an  intensely  hot  night.  We  had  bur- 
dened ourselves  with  extra  clothes.  We  stumbled 
up  pebbly  paths  between  hedges  of  dwarf  acacia, 
muddy  banks,  and  chestnut  copse,  which  quite  ob- 


266  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

scured  the  moonlight  and  muffled  in  the  air.  Below 
us,  at  intervals,  we  caught  glimpses  of  vast  plains 
bathed  in  owl  light,  and  an  awful  sense  of  fever  and 
oppression  came  puffing  up  from  these  plains  and 
lingered  in  the  hills. 

Six  weeks  of  the  above-described  existence  had 
not  served  to  develop  the  walking  powers  of  the 
young  English  ladies.  They,  however,  walked 
bravely,  but  our  guide,  the  sindaco,  had  lived 
too  long  on  the  fat  of  the  hospice  to  be  much 
of  a  mountaineer.  He  told  me  hopelessly  that  I 
was  no  Inglesina,  but  a  Roman  matron,  from  the 
development  of  the  muscles  in  my  feet.  Some 
dogs  attacked  us  with  loud  barking  by  lonely 
farms,  where  we  stopped  to  rest,  but  they  seemed 
frightened  at  the  white  dresses  of  my  friends.  We 
passed  through  stubble  fields  where  the  corn  was 
stacked  in  heaps,  and  at  length  came  out  upon 
grass  slopes  and  turfy  mounds  where  the  scent  of 
thyme  and  bracken  seemed  to  make  the  night  air 
pure.  I  remember  discussing  with  Miss  M.  at 
this  point  the  rival  merits  of  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling 
and  Mr.  Henry  James — so  incongruous  are  the 
wanderings  of  the  human  mind  and  feet. 

At  2.30  we  reached  the  top  of  Venda.  The 
storm  was  rolling  away  again,  driven  by  a  keen  wind 
from  the  east.  The  moon  sailed  clear  and  very 
bright    through    a    deep    blue    sky.      Great  planets 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  267 

and  constellations  were  dimmed  by  her  radiance. 
But  Mars  shone  like  red  blood. 

The  top  of  Venda  is  very  broad  and  flat.  It 
is  covered  on  the  extreme  summit  by  chestnut 
brush ;  but  all  along  the  southern  side  runs  an 
artificial  plateau,  the  site  of  a  huge  convent  and 
its  grounds,  now  absolutely  ruined  and  abandoned. 
That  peculiarly  smooth  turf  surrounds  its  ruins 
which  adds  so  much  to  the  charm  of  all  mediaeval 
dwellings.  The  thin  storm-wind  still  blew  over  the 
hill — a  wind  turned  to  ice — in  the  black  night  air. 
It  hurried  the  plaster  about  in  the  ruins,  and  went 
on  and  away  to  wrestle  with  the  heated  north 
whence  we  had  come.  To  escape  it  we  crossed 
those  pleasant  lawns  and  entered  the  ruins.  Large 
in  the  daylight,  they  now  seemed  colossal.  The 
tottering  remnants  of  what  were  once  high  walls 
rose  up  from  the  precipitous  hill,  black,  still  crags 
against  the  moon. 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass-grown  floor  of  the 
refectory.  Its  rose  windows,  bare  now  of  traceries, 
let  in  owlish  gleams  upon  the  faces  of  my  com- 
panions. Bushes  of  sweetbriar  swayed  in  the  breeze, 
and  about  the  walls  dead  grasses  rustled  and  shook 
down  their  seeds.  Through  this  black  frame  of 
masonry  one  surveyed  the  lesser  hills  and  the 
vast  moonlit  plain  hundreds  of  feet  below.  A 
more  romantic   spot   it  would  be  hard   to   find  in 


268  DAYS  SPENT   ON 

any  corner  of  the  globe,  although,  as  I  gather, 
ruins  are  out  of  fashion.  But  the  chill  and  draught 
were  terrible.  Some  of  the  party  returned  to  the 
lawns,  and  there  sank  down  in  dreamy  heaps  upon 
their  mackintoshes.  Others  felt  happier  on  the 
move,  and  wandered  away  to  the  extreme  point 
of  Venda.  We  found  all  sorts  of  flowers  under 
that  clear  moon — small  anthericum  lilies  and  pink 
vetches — and  we  rested  on  bushes  of  fraxinella. 

There,  then,  in  the  chestnut  copse  we  watched 
the  birth  of  day. 

After  long  waiting  there  came  the  dawn — a 
scarcely  visible  shimmer  of  white  above  the  clouds 
in  the  eastern  heaven  :  a  thing  which  throbbed  and 
trembled,  seeming  to  shiver  as  it  touched  the 
reigning  light  of  the  moon.  Even  as  you  could 
not  distinguish  the  exact  birth  of  dawn,  so  it 
seemed  impossible  to  trace  its  inevitable  progress 
through  the  heavens.  Only  it  struck  me  that  for 
a  minute  the  stars  grew  brighter,  and  everything 
became  intensely  cold  and  still.  Then  the  wild 
thyme  at  our  feet  gave  out  a  stronger  scent,  and 
one  by  one  the  watchers  on  the  plain  became  aware 
of  day.  One  by  one  church  bells  began  to  ring, 
till  all  the  world  seemed  full  of  slow,  sad,  tinkling 
chimes,  and  the  twittering  of  innumerable  birds. 
Then  these  sounds  died  away.  I  saw  that  the 
moon  was  but  a  weak  thing,  and  that  the  coming 
day  was  strangling  her. 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  269 

At  last  the  sun  clambered  up  over  a  bank  of 
heavy  cloud — a  dull  orange  god  who  robbed  the 
world  or  mystery,  but  filled  it  full  of  truth  and 
splendour.  I  think  there  was  no  detail  which  his 
gilded  fingers  did  not  handle.  But  it  is  impossible 
accurately  to  describe  that  spectacle,  even  though 
one  watched  it  from  the  very  centre  of  a  mighty 
amphitheatre.  Sitting  on  the  highest  point  of  the 
Euganean  hills,  I  tried  with  all  my  might  to  mark 
the  splendour  of  a  sunrise  in  North  Italy. 

First  a  vein  of  silver  crept  through  the  darkness 
along  the  western  horizon  :  and  that  was  the  lagunes. 
Then  against  this  line  there  started  up  a  little  hedge 
of  inky  needles  :  Venice  and  Chioggia ;  the  Lido 
next  showed  black  upon  that  glittering  water. 
Above  them  all  the  dawn  vanished  into  the  sun, 
and  moon  and  planets  died. 

The  moment  was  so  fleeting  one  scarce  caught 
it.  One's  eyes  followed  a  pageant  far  more  subtle 
than  any  shown  by  man.  The  plain  for  some  few 
minutes  was  grey  and  void  of  detail  till  the  sun  rose 
upon  it  too,  and  first  its  rays  caressed  small  wreaths 
of  mist  which  had  formed  round  the  foot  of  every 
little  hill,  and  then  gilded  the  vapours  rising  from 
hot  springs  at  Abano  and  Montegrotto.  Lastly, 
they  flooded  the  plain.  The  whole  land  caught  the 
light  :  waters  and  mists,  fields  and  trees,  shone 
together   in    the  great   glory  of  the  sun.     To  the 


270  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

north-east  the  Alps  stretched  back,  row  upon  row. 
You  could  count  their  scars  and  crags,  and  all  their 
snows  and  watercourses,  for  in  the  whole  air  there 
was  no  mist.  At  a  later  hour  these  mountains 
vanished  into  purple  shades,  but  at  that  instant 
their  very  hearts  lay  bare  ;  and  as  for  Padua,  every 
minaret  and  dome  stood  out  distinct.  To  the  north 
were  the  Monti  Berici.  Each  town  and  villa  shone 
white  among  its  trees.  Thus  three-quarters  of  the 
horizon — the  Adriatic,  Tyrol,  and  Venetia — were 
absolutely  clear,  but  Gromboolia  had  huddled  herself 
in  a  sort  of  torpid  owl-light.  It  seemed  a  hopeless 
thing  to  seek  for  detail  in  that  drowsy  plain.  As 
the  sun  came  up  the  church  bells  ceased  to  ring. 
Though  one  could  not  see  it,  one  felt  that  men's 
labour  had  begun  in  that  great  chessboard  at  our  feet. 

I  think  I  have  realised  better  from  that  hour  what 
a  world  it  is  in  which  we  have  the  luck  to  live,  and 
what  grand  miracles  surround  us  every  day. 

We  left  the  hill  behind  us,  and  struck  down 
another  shoulder,  straight  upon  the  convent  of  Rua, 
which  stands  on  a  little  hill  alone,  surrounded  by 
high  walls  and  groves  of  cypress  and  of  pine. 

It  was  a  rather  long  tramp,  but  cool,  and  our 
path  lay  over  arbutus  brush  and  tall  white  bushes 
of  Mediterranean  heath.  We  sank  down  exhausted 
in  the  porch  of  the  convent,  with  letters  of  gold 
shining   over    our    heads    to    denounce   the  further 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  271 

entrance   of  women.      We    were    most    hospitably 

received    by    the    monks,  who    came   out    to    meet 

us  in  their  sandals  and  long  heavy  robes  of  white 

serge.     They  were  friends  of  the  sindaco,  and  had 

invited   us    to    breakfast.      They    brought    out    a 

wooden    table    with    a    clean    cloth    and    the    most 

fascinating    china    marked    with    a    blue    cross  ;    a 

bowl,  too,   filled    to  the  brim   with  litres  of  fresh 

milk,  hot   coffee,  and  brown   bread.     The   convent 

walls    rose   up   behind   us,  tall   cypress-trees   peered 

over  them.     Below  us  lay  the  plain  and  the  lagunes, 

Chioggia  rising  black  against  the  dazzling  light  of 

day,    and   the   smoke   of  passing    steamers    clearly 

seen.      A    charming   German    monk,    pale    as    his 

clothes,  waited  upon  us.     He  was  deeply  depressed 

by  his  surroundings.     His  eyes  filled  with  tears  on 

hearing  once  more  his  native  tongue.     "  Yes,"  said 

this  melancholy  Teuton,  "  that's  Chioggia,  and  those 

are  the  lagunes.     There  are  plenty  of  cypress-trees 

in    our   garden — vines   too.     But  these    things   are 

always    the   same — not   like    our   woods   at    home. 

Have  some  more  coffee?" 

Thus   one    may    even    live    on    a  Euganean   hill, 

where 

"  Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair," 

and  pine  for  Schleswig-Holstein  ! 


272  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

We  could  not  stay  at  Rua  long,  for  the  day 
was  advancing,  and  we  had  a  long  walk  before  us, 
round  the  hills  to  Teolo.  Our  path  lay  through 
the  most  romantic  chestnut  woods  and  pergolas  of 
grape.  The  day  was  cool.  Before  nine  we  returned 
once  more  to  the  hospice,  having  walked  some 
seventeen  miles.  But  the  dawn  had  refreshed  and 
entranced  us,  and  we  were  unfatigued. 

The  next  morning,  having  slept  very  well,  we  were 
seized  with  the  desire  of  ascending  the  Monte  della 
Madonna,  which  I  had  been  prevented  from  doing 
in  May.  Miss  M.  was  fired  by  the  same  wish, 
and  we  rushed  madly  towards  the  summit  of  that 
peculiarly  steep  hill. 

Eight  a.m.  was  certainly  a  late  hour  to  start  upon 
a  mountain  expedition  on  the  20th  of  July,  and  in 
those  sun-baked  plains.  But  slumber  had  refreshed 
us,  and  a  great  coolness  was  breathed  upon  the 
heated  air  by  hedge  and  meadow  after  the  rain  of 
night.  Pale  saponaria,  heavy  with  morning  dew, 
opened  its  petals  below  the  hazel  copse.  Things 
shone  and  sparkled  ;  a  cool  wind  ruffled  the  chestnut 
leaves  in  the  wood  through  which  we  passed.  We 
ascended  quickly,  leaving  the  roofs  of  Teolo 
immediately  below  our  feet,  and  scrambling  up 
rough  ways  which  in  winter  serve  as  watercourses, 
and    show    like    scars    upon    the    face    of    Monte 


A    DOGE'S   FARM  273 

Grande.  Then  we  came  out  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  Madonna,  and  passed  by  vineyards  and 
cultivated  fields,  and  on  into  the  everlasting  chest- 
nut copse  by  winding  pilgrims'  paths.  At  intervals 
there  was  an  "  Ave "  rudely  carved  upon  the 
stepping-stones  where  the  devout  may  pause  to 
pray.  Most  beautiful  speckled  moths  and  butter- 
flies floated  and  played  in  the  warm  air  around 
the  white  anthericums,  the  flowering  mint,  and 
crimson  pinks. 

At  last  we  came  out  by  the  small  church  on 
the  summit  of  the  hill.  Below  us,  to  the  north, 
unchecked  by  any  mound,  we  suddenly  saw  the 
whole  vast  plain  of  Lombardy — a  vision  such  as 
Venda  cannot  offer.  Miles  and  miles,  countless 
miles  of  blue,  with  here  and  there  a  fleck  of  white 
— a  city — and  beyond  all  these  marble  cities  one 
larger  and  fainter  than  the  rest,  Verona. 

Members  of  the  Alpine  Club  may  scramble  up 
and  down  and  risk  their  necks  above  a  sea  of 
crags  and  glaciers,  stone  ledges,  and  impossible 
arretes.  Give  me  rather  a  little  hill  above  the 
plain,  with  gently  wooded  sides  and  smiling  lawns 
upon  its  crest,  and  let  me  sit  there  many  a  long 
and  quiet  hour,  basking  in  the  warm  unclouded 
air.     Nothing  is  half  as  sweet. 

We  could  not  see  the  Apennines  or  Alps ;  it 
seemed  as  though  there  were  only  sky  round  and 

18 


274  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

above  this  visionary  plain,  and  to  the  south  a  thin 
glimmer  over  the  lagunes.  Venice  was  invisible, 
Padua  and  Chioggia  we  could  trace — minute  fairy 
towns,  with  the  throb  of  their  life  borne  up  to 
our  imagination  only. 

We  lay  down  upon  the  smooth  turf  which  grows 
up  to  the  edge  of  the  tiny  pilgrimage  church.  It 
struck  me  that  in  that  huge  landscape  at  our  feet 
men  had  done  an  immense  amount  of  work  ;  and 
without  in  the  least  altering  its  larger  features 
they  had  successfully  tattooed  every  inch  of  it  by 
cultivation.  I  never  can  lose  this  impression  when 
I  look  down  upon  a  cultivated  plain.  It  is  so  exactly 
the  opposite  of  that  left  on  one's  mind  by  an  Alpine 
view. 

A  broad  grass  parapet  runs  round  the  top  of  this 
little  mountain.  Passing  round  it  you  have  your 
view  unchecked  only  to  the  west  where  the  back  of 
Venda  obscures  the  plain.  Gromboolia,  therefore, 
is  invisible.  A  white  cross  stands  on  a  little  cairn 
upon  the  summit.  Lilies  and  pinks  grow  around  its 
feet,  and  we  found  the  long  white  skin  of  a  snake 
caught  amongst  their  roots.  Tall  plants  of  evening 
primrose  grow  in  the  garden  by  the  church. 

"  Oh,  it  seems  to  you  beautiful  here  in  July,"  said 
the  guardiano^  M  but  think  of  winter  months.  The 
snowstorms  come  up,  they  blow  around  my  house, 
they  cover  it  as  with  a  sheet." 


A   DOGE'S  FARM  275 

Snow — the  very  naming  of  the  thing  seemed 
impossible.  Here  was  a  summer  hill,  its  breast 
heaving  gently  below  the  gauze  of  midday  heat 
which  covered  it. 

That  afternoon  I  said  goodbye  to  Teolo,  and 
the  friends  who  had  received  me  there  with  such 
geniality  and  kindness.  Two  of  them  went  with 
me  to  Abano,  and  the  carpenter  drove  us.  The 
mouse  seemed  not  a  whit  embarrassed  by  this  load. 
Indeed,  we  rattled  gaily  down  the  steep  hillside, 
where  but  some  two  months  past  an  equal  load  had 
been  dragged  so  dismally  at  dawn.  We  did  not 
see  my  former  acquaintance,  the  coachman  clown. 
But  I  thought  of  him,  of  his  roses,  his  bundles, 
and  his  oppressive  steed,  as  we  passed  the  abode  of 
his  adored.  A  flush  of  tamarisk  was  over  the  moat 
of  that  deserted  palace.  The  carnation  plants  were 
all  in  bloom. 

We  stayed  again  to  visit  Praglia.  The  cheerful 
convent  clown  welcomed  us  with  beaming  smiles. 
He  carried  his  gallantry  towards  us  so  far  as  to 
throw  himself  into  a  deep  well,  clinging,  cat-like, 
to  the  brickwork,  to  tear  away  large  tufts  of 
maidenhair.  Poor  fronds,  how  fresh  and  green 
they  grew  amongst  the  fig-leaves  on  the  remem- 
brance of  a  spring  long  dead !  The  sunlight 
withered  them  in  our  hot  hands.     As  usual  all  the 


276  DAYS  SPENT  ON 

place  was  flooded  through  with  sunlight.  The 
clown  knocked  down  the  same  archangel  in  the 
refectory,  and  dusty  shafts  of  light  and  dying 
butterflies  lingered  on  the  floor.  The  light  of 
afternoon  pierced  through  the  library  windows,  and 
rested  on  the  picture  of  a  forehead  which  indeed 
is  here  divine. 

That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  Praglia.  With  sorrow 
we  left  the  great  deserted  convent,  the  sun  upon  its 
crimson  roofs,  the  shades  of  evening  creeping  through 
its  olive-yards  upon  the  hill. 

As  we  approached  the  station  of  Abano,  and 
consequently  civilisation,  I  gazed  with  sudden  wild 
dismay  upon  my  small  luggage  and  general 
appearance.  For  my  clothes  had  witnessed  the 
midnight  ascent  of  Venda  and  the  morning  climb 
of  the  Madonna,  and  were  not  such  as  to  dazzle 
the  beholder.  A  great  fear  seized  me  as  I  con- 
templated dragging  all  my  country  triumphs  into 
an  elegant  first-class  carriage.  There  was  a  large 
wicker  basket  with  two  kilos  of  fresh  figs  under 
one  arm,  my  hold-all  containing  the  immensely  long 
roots  of  six  rose-trees  (the  rose  peculiar  to  the 
Euganean  district)  under  the  other,  and  in  my  hands 
I  held  a  colossal  bunch  composed  of  every  flower 
that  blows  upon  the  hills  at  Teolo,  with  two  more 
bundles  of  roots,  and  an  erection  of  dried  grasses 
presented  to  me  by  the  schoolmistress  of  that  village, 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  277 

a  thing  most  terrible  to  behold  and  ten  times  worse 
to  carry.  However,  as  the  train  steamed  into  the 
station  a  familiar  broad-beamed  beaver,  surmounting 
a  friendly  visage,  and  a  pair  of  flopping  sleeves 
waving  madly  from  a  window  of  the  train,  announced 
the  presence  of  A.  I  bade  adieu  to  my  companions, 
in  whose  society  I  had  spent  such  pleasant  hours, 
and,  regardless  of  adverse  criticism,  carted  all  my 
vegetables  into  A.'s  compartment.  This  gentleman, 
having  informed  me  first  that  I  had  grown  extremely 
ugly  during  my  residence  in  the  hills  (a  fact  which 
was  absolutely  correct,  for  my  face  was  rendered 
scarlet  by  long  walks  under  a  July  sun,  and  the 
dainty  tattooing  of  mosquitoes),  commenced  an 
uninvited  attack  upon  the  figs.  His  humour  was 
sunny,  for  he  had  been  worrying  his  friends 
at  Padua,  and  had  secured  several  uninteresting- 
looking  volumes  from  the  archives  of  that  city. 
He  had  been  out  on  a  lark,  and  was  returning 
without  fever. 

We  reached  Vescovana  at  eight.  Never  had  the 
Doge's  Farm  seemed  so  full  of  joy  and  peace. 
The  shadows  of  evening  were  creeping  through  its 
gardens.  Its  inhabitants  surrounded  me  and  all  my 
trophies  with  a  kindness  very  pleasing  to  my  spirit. 
The  roses  had  been  born  again.  The  air  was  full  of 
a  fragrance  fainter  and  almost  sweeter  than  that  of 
early  spring.     My  room  was  a  garden  for  the  gods. 


278     BAYS   SPENT  ON  A   DOGE'S  FARM 

Far  away  through  the  open  windows  I  saw  the 
night  come  over  the  blue  backs  of  sleeping  Euga- 
nean  hills,  and  I  remembered  that  the  little  boys 
of  Teolo  were  coming  up  the  street  that  hour  to 
play  upon  their  occarini. 


THE  WALLS  OF   ESTE   IN  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 
[From  Professor  Butler  s  "  Tfie  Lombard  Communes"] 


To  face  page  278 


CHAPTER    XX 


LAST    DAYS 


XTATURE,  in  these  last  days,  has  grown  most 
f  ^  wonderfully  still.  That  gilded  heat  has  gone 
from  the  air  ;  there  is  an  absolute  distinctness  in 
every  object.  June  is  long  dead.  On  this  earth  one 
season  is  usually  spent  in  looking  for  signs  of  the 
next,  and  in  July  I  have  seen  autumn. 

This  afternoon  we  drove  to  the  "  Fontana,"  which 
is  the  last  farm  where  the  threshing-machine  had 
to  work.  Everything  was  finished  before  we  arrived, 
and  the  place  was  very  dead  and  silent,  though  all 
the  men  and  women  still  lingered  on  the  threshing- 
floor,  hanging  about  in  groups.  You  saw  that  the 
harvest  was  over  and  done  for  this  year.  The 
workers  sank  down  upon  their  sacks,  the  slim  girl 
leaning  against  her  lover.  Above  them  the  pergola 
spread,  drooping  heavy  with  grapes. 

There  was  a  dead,  dull  look  about  the  machine. 
The  machinista  put  its  boards  together  with  a  sort 
of  sorrow.  Every  one  looked  tired,  but  chiefly 
depressed  or  gone  back  to  that  state  of  indifference 


279 


280  DAYS   SPENT  ON 

which  marks  these  men  in  ordinary  life.  There 
cannot  be  always  excitement,  and  then  they  had  got 
to  marry,  which  is  a  more  serious  matter  than  court- 
ship in  a  stubble  field.  Later  in  the  evening  I  met 
them  straggling  home  in  couples  along  the  bank  of 
the  Adige.     No  one  smiled. 

In  the  garden  there  is  a  whole  new  birth  of 
flowers,  gladiolus  of  innumerable  shades,  sunflowers 
ten  feet  high  and  more,  blue  agapanthus  lilies 
where  day  lilies  once  had  been,  and  a  glow  and 
a  glory  of  zinnias  over  every  bed.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  find  a  soil  more  suited  to  these 
splendid  flowers  than  that  of  Lombardy.  There 
are  huge  trees  of  pink  hibiscus,  crimson  Cape 
myrtles,  red-hot  pokers,  and  countless  convolvulus. 
Indeed,  things  of  more  colour  and  a  greater 
endurance  than  those  fragile  blooms  dear  to  our 
hearts  in  spring. 

The  granaries  are  full  of  grain,  the  cornfields 
brown.  Scarcely  a  gleaner  even  in  the  line  of 
stubble  where  the  straw  was  stacked. 

Courtship  is  over.  The  nights  are  almost  silent. 
Young  birds  have  spread  their  wings,  tadpoles  have 
turned  to  tiny  frogs,  and  these  again  have  grown 
large.  The  fireflies  give  no  light,  save  where  here 
and  there  one  twinkles  in  a  rose-bush  out  of  season. 
As  for  the  nightingales,  they  have  grown  hoarse  and 


A    DOGE'S  FARM  281 

almost  ceased  to  sing  ;  sometimes  a  croaking  cuckoo 
flies  off  startled  at  his  own  cracked  voice.  The 
dragon-flies  must  all  be  dead,  the  bees  seek  honey  in 
the  beds,  for  the  flowers  of  the  vine  have  turned  to 
grape,  the  Virginia  creeper  is  covered  by  big  berries. 
The  leaves  on  the  willow  and  poplar  have  grown 
stirrer ;  small  winds  scarcely  make  them  tremble. 
The  ditches  are  bare,  and  the  water-snakes  cross 
over  the  withering  grass  disconsolate. 

Indeed,  all  nature  has  had  its  springtime  and  is 
resting.  That  throb  and  rush  of  intensest  life 
which  filled  the  whole  land  in  June  is  dead.  The 
heart  of  summer  is  laid  bare  to  the  sunlight  of 
interminable  days.  Two  more  months  and  it  will 
burn  in  the  light  of  autumn,  and  winter  follow  and 
spring,  and  the  old  miracle  of  harvest  be  worked 
once  more  about  the  Doge's  Farm. 

So  with  the  flowers  of  a  lowland  summer  I  too 
went,  turning  to  greet  a  second  summer  in  the  Alps. 
Little  strings  pulled  at  my  heart.  I  loved  the 
mountains,  but  very  well  I  had  learned  to  love  the 
plain,  and  the  joy  which  only  Italy  can  give  was 
strong  within  my  soul  still. 

The  dogs  and  I  walked  out  for  the  last  time 
amongst  the  fields.  The  cool  voice  of  the  Adige 
was  calling,  but  all  the  land  was  dry.  Stubble  and 
clods,  clods  and  stubble,  and  a  strange  Sunday  silence 
over  the  tired  land. 


EPILOGUE 

"  I  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me, 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again." 

Tennyson,  The  Daisy. 

'""T'HUS,  then,  I   left   Gromboolia  and   took  my 

*     train  for  Milan.     But  one  last  look   I   gave 

towards  the  plain,  and  in  the  early  morning  climbed 

the  Duomo  stairs.     There,  standing  high  amidst  the 

airy  multitude  of  marble  forms,  I  looked  forth  upon 

the  mighty   panorama,  and  bade  farewell  to  Lom- 

bardy.     But  my  eyes  lingered  towards  the  east  which 

held  the  Doge's  Farm.     Faint  blue  plain,  faint  blue 

sky,  with  no  horizon  line  to  mark  where  the  two 

embraced — a  city  and  a  sea  of  fields,  and  over  all 

that  absolute  calm  and  haze  which  form  the  charm 

of  Lombardy. 

A  few  hours  more,  and  I  was  up  on  the  southern 

282 


DAYS   SPENT  ON  A    DOGE'S  FARM    283 

side  of  the  Gotthard,  amongst  the  chestnut  groves 
which  spread  huge  branches  over  mountain  meadows 
and  mossy  hamlet,  where  white  cascades  dash  down 
from  upland  snows  to  shine  amidst  deep  shadows 
and  impenetrable  pine. 

But  far  back  I  knew  the  stubble  fields  were  sleeping 
under  the  same  sun  as  gilded  all  the  boulders  on 
the  granite  mountains.  And  as  the  gates  of  the 
unforgiving  Alps  closed  in  upon  me,  shutting  tight 
the  entrance  back  upon  Italian  valleys,  I  thought  of 
the  plain  below  them,  of  the  long  white  roads,  white 
oxen,  whiter  clouds  ;  of  the  willow  hedge,  the  ditch, 
the  golden  threshing-floor,  and  of  those  happy 
summer  days  spent  on  a  Doge's  Farm. 


INDEX 


A.,   81,   82,   85,  89  f,    101,    103, 

105,   115,   170,  214,  224,  230, 

236,  239,  277 
Abano,  254,  255,  269,  275,  276 
Adige,  47,  49,  55,  70,  106,  115, 

179,  204,  214,  244  ff,  281 
Adriatic,  47,  48,  56,  244,  270 
Alps,    16,    26,   47,   49,    50,    237, 

250,  270,  281,  283 
Angelico,  Fra,  22 
Angelo,  11,  113,  116,  121  f 
Anne,  Queen,  57 
Apennines,  47,  56,  112 
Arqua,  34,  95  f 

Baccaglini,  258  f,  264 
Barbaro.      See  Palazzo 
Barr,  Mr.,  27 
Battaglia,  95 
Blomfield,  Mr.,  27,  114 
Boara  Pisani,  179 
Bologna,  48 
Borghese,  Prince,  41 
Bovi.     See  Oxen. 


Brown,  Mr.  H.  F.,  1 1 
Browning,  173,  174,  238 
Byron,  Lord,  13,  15,  40,  94 

Calcondylas,  Demetrius,  233 
Canotto,  222 
Carducci,  145 
Carpaccio,  241 
Castel  Novo,  265 
Cats,  83 
Cattaia,  95 
Chioggia,  269,  271 
Constantinople,  13,  14 
Crispin  de  Pass,  27,   28,  78,  79, 
89,  114,  168 

Dante,  81,  85,  103 

Davos,  25 

de  Musset,  Alfred,  129 

Dieci  (farm),  81,  105,  202 

Dolfin,  Marchese,  of  Rovigo,  175 

Donatello,  190 

Eccelino  da  Romano,  190 


286 


INDEX 


Elvira,  159-62 

Este,  13,  55,  67,  94,  no 

family,  54,  55,  175 

Euganean   Hills,    15,  48,   56,  90, 
94 f,  no,  119,  225,  253 ff,  271 

Fallier,  Doge  Marin,  54 

Ferrara,  48,  54,  233,  235 

Fire,  213-16 

Fishing,  183 

Flood,  250 

Florence,     113,    114,    148,    193, 

233 
Fontana  (farm),  109 
Frederick  II.,  Emperor,  54 
Frederick,  The  Empress,  of  Ger- 
many, 26,  83 

Gardens,  16-28,  65,  70,  78  f,  172, 
174,  198  f,  231,  234,  236,  280 
Garibaldi,  176,  178 
Giovanelli,  Princess,  177 
Gleaning,  205,  209  fF,  247 
Gorzone  Canal,  109,  150 
Granze,  210 
"  Gromboolia,"    50.      See    Pado- 

VANA. 

Harvest,  21,  27,  101,  132,  202  if, 

279 
Homer,  34,  8 1 
Horns,  73  f,  78 


Italy,  Northern,   description    ot, 
23  f,  26,  28,  264 

Lacaita,  Sir  James,  114 

L'Albera,  175 

Layard,  Lady,  37 

Leaf,  Mr.  Walter,  52 

Lear,  Edward,  50 

Leopardi,  81,  103,  124,  126 

Leucaspide,  26 

Libro  d'Oro,  53  f,  57 

Lido,  269 

Lombardi  brothers,  the,  191 

Lombardy,  16,47,48,  55,  56,  62, 

95,    104,    112,    129,  257,    273, 

282 
London,  57,  58 

Machiavelli,  34 

Manfredini,  the,  152,  175 

Mantua,  48 

Marchiori    of  Lendinara,   Signor, 

177 
Maremma  dogs,  22,  88,   105,  281 
Merlin,  Signori,  167,  180,  197 
Mestre,  87 
Milan,    25,    87,    129,    233,    242, 

249,  282 
Millingen,  Alexander  van,  14,  39 

Charles  van,  14 

Dr.  Julius  van,  13 

Missolonghi,  13 
Monselice,  20,  94,  no 


INDEX 


287 


Montagna,  91,  256,  257 
Montecchio,  226  f,  237 
Monte  Grande,  258 
Montegrotto,  269 
Monte  Madonna,   118,   121,  273, 

276 
Monte  Pendice,  1 18  f 
Monti  Berici,  225,  243,  270 
"  Muezzin,"  42,  203  f 
Murano,  235  f 
Music,  164  ff,  220,  261,  2621 

North,  Miss  Marianne,  41 

Oxen,  23,  24,  52,  56,  76  f,  81, 
109,  146  f,  1  54  fF,  206  F,  219, 
245 

Oxen,  Pugliesi,  178  f 

Padovana,  Basso,  or  "  Gromboo- 
lia,"  18,23,  26,  48,  50,  62,  70, 
71,  76,  94,  101,  104,  106,  113, 
126,  140  f,  162,  163  fF,  244-51, 
270 

Padua,  48,  58,  61,  113,  120,  122, 
129,  177,  190  fF,  225,  242,  270 

Palazzo  Barbaro,  16,  36,  57,  59 

Palazzo  Rosso,  247-50 

Peasants,  Italian,  17,  18,  21,  23, 
28,  29,  66,  78,  118,  129-37, 
196,  205,  209,  221,  256,  279F 

Pelizzaro,  Beltrame,  54 

Pendice.     See  Monte 


Petrarch,  95  F 

Pioppa,  219 

Pisa,  53  F 

Pisani,  Count  Almoro,  13,  43,  59, 
66,  115 

Evelina,  Countess,  widow 

oF  above,  notice  in  Times,  13; 
marriage,  1 5  ;  capacity  For  rule, 
29,  39,  147  fF.  Memoir,  see 
Preface  to  Second  Edition. 

Family  history,  53-9 

Zecchino  oF  Doge,  37,  50 


Pizzua,  1 1 4 

Po,  47 

Poggio  Gherardo,  1 1 3,  114 

Pontresina,  16 

Praglia,  89,  91,  95,  255  F,  2751 

Rembrandt,  241 

Robert  College,  Constantinople,  14 

Rome,   13,   14,  37,  41,   113,  233, 

235 
Ross,  Mrs.,  114 
Rovigo,  62,  116,  166,  250 
Rua,  convent,  270 

Santa  Caterina  canal,  61 
Sant'  Elena,  72  f 
S.  Antonio  of  Padua,  189  fF 
S.  Francis  oF  Assisi,  189 
St.  Moritz,  16 

Shelley,   48,  94,    138,   139,   253, 
264 


288 


INDEX 


Silkworms,    119,   120,    177,  226, 

258 
Stables,  72,  76  f,  88,  131,   1461", 

152  ff,  179,  248 
Stanghella,  19,  62,  76,  164  f,  172, 

192,  221 
Stra,  58 
Symonds,  J.  A.,  35,  36,  45,  113, 

n6f,  120,  162,  232 

Tasso,  232 
Tavernelle,  226,  242 
Tennyson,  157,  163,  282 
Teolo,  95,  113,  116,  1 18  f,  168, 

254 f,  275 
Threshing,  217  ff 
Ticino,  47 
Trissino,  226  ff 

Giangiorgio,  232  f 

Trombini,  Professor  F.,  52 
Tyrol,  242,  245,  270 


Val  d'Agno,  226,  237 
Val  San  Zibio,  95,  97 
Venda  (Monte),  1 18  f,  254,  263  ff, 

276 
Venice,    1 1,    14,  35,   36,  47,  48, 

53,    54,    113,    123,    233,   245, 

269 
Verona,  129,  273 
Veronese,  Paolo,  265 
Vescovana,    12,    14,    15,  22,  36, 

61,  71,  115  and  passim 
Vicenza,  225,  232,  234,  238,  243 
Virgil,  23,  34,  41,  48,  81 
"Vo,"  116,  117 

Wales,  Prince   and    Princess   of, 

37 

Prince  George  of,  ib. 

Walt  Whitman,  140 

Zecchino,  Venetian,  37 


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